


To the Manor Borne

by palimpsessed



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2020, Domestic, Fanart, Fluff, Found Family, Hot Chocolate, Just the gang chilling at the ol' manorhouse, M/M, Mentioned Ebeneza "Ebb" Petty, Mentioned Martin Bunce, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Paddington Bear - Freeform, Pitch Manor, Please just go with me on this :), Post-Canon, Winter, Yall idk how to not write angst in my fluff, because it's its own motif at this point, plot-light (TM), references to Simon's depression and other mental health stuff that I will try to keep light, vaguely post trouble at watford, wraiths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 42,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palimpsessed/pseuds/palimpsessed
Summary: The gang decides to spend Christmas together at Pitch Manor. Romance, hijinks, and holiday cheer ensue.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 107
Kudos: 162
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2020





	1. Day 1: Found Family

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! This is my first ever Countdown! I thought it would be fun to write one continuous story using the prompts as chapters in a fic. I just really wanted the gang all hanging out at Pitch Manor together with no real reason. There isn't much of an overarching plot (because this is me), and the vibes will definitely change for each chapter with the change in my approach to the individual prompts. It's silly and serious and fluffy and angsty and the chapter lengths vary quite a bit. I am also going to try to throw in some art for certain days!
> 
> The story is set in a sort of nebulous post-"trouble at Watford" winter. All you need for set up: Baz and Simon are still together (duh!), Simon is back in therapy (hooray!), Baz isn't (yet), Simon knows about his parentage, and he does not have magic, but then again, neither does anyone in Hampshire! Enjoy!

**PENNY**

In the end, we wind up at Pitch Manor.

I'm still not sure how it happened, but here we all are, standing in the driveway, looking up at the huge Victorian mansion. (Baz said it's part of the National Trust and has to be carefully preserved.)

It feels weird, being back in one of the dead spots. _—Wrong._

I've visited a lot of dead spots with my dad, and helped out on some of his studies. He's learned so much more about them, now that he has the funding for it. (It helps that mum is on the Coven.) But no matter how many I've been to, or how long I've spent in them, I'm still not used to this feeling of nothing.

And Simon surprised us all when he volunteered himself as a test subject. Now that we know he always was meant to be a mage, even if there'd been no creepy ritual to turn him into the Chosen One, Dad's theory is that Simon is a bit of a dead spot himself. Something that used to have magic that got sucked up by the Insidious Humdrum, even if Simon is the one who gave it away.

Dad hasn't quite figured out where the magic goes when it leaves a dead spot, but it has to go somewhere. It's like anything else. It can't be created or destroyed, so something has to happen to it. It has to go somewhere, or become something new. We're still piecing it together, but Simon's been a big help. (So has Shepard, since he knows all about American Quiet Zones, and how places that never had magic work.) (But I'm still not sure how much about the World of Mages I'm comfortable sharing with a Normal, especially something so critical to the survival of our magic.)

"Well," Baz says, sounding uncertain. Baz doesn't usually sound uncertain. I suppose after everything we've been through since the last time we were all here together (with the exception of Shepard, of course, who's never been here), I can understand that. And the lack of magic must make him feel even more uncomfortable than me; it's not my family's magic that was sucked out of this place. I didn't grow up here. (Baz would argue he also didn't grow up here. But that's a different matter.) "I suppose we had better get our things and head in. Vera got the place ready for us."

"Who's Vera?" Shepard asks.

"My old nanny," Baz replies. "She's a Normal, too, Shepard. Too bad she won't be here. I'm sure you'd get along smashingly."

Shepard rolls his eyes. "You know, we're not all the same."

"True, Vera doesn't know anything about magic. She thinks my family's in the Mafia."

"Not a far cry," I say. "I think Simon thought that once, too."

Simon turns around to object, "I did not!"

I roll my eyes.

"Are we going in, or aren't we?" Agatha asks, sounding appropriately huffy, which for her is sort of a default. She drove Shepard and Lucy and me and Simon rode with Baz. We had to take two cars, because once we got into Hampshire, Simon's wings popped, and there wouldn't have been enough room for them and us in one car. "Or was the plan to just spend the night outside?"

Shepard has already started wandering off.

Simon looks to Baz. "Do you reckon the place is still haunted?"

Baz rolls his eyes, opening the boot on his father's Jaguar. "No, you coward. The wraiths disappeared with the magic."

"Oh," Simon says softly. I can tell Baz's acerbic wit didn't do much to distract Simon from the sting of his answer. Simon still feels guilty about creating the Humdrum and gobbling up all of that magic. I think it's worse for him here, because this was Baz's family's home, one of the most powerful magickal landmarks in all of Britain. And he was here when it happened. He'd filled Baz up with his magic after the Humdrum attacked, and he'd used Baz's family's magic to do it.

I walk over to him and put an arm around his waist. I don't linger, because Simon's still struggling with being touched, but I give him a smile and a squeeze, so that he knows I'm here for him.

I understand why he feels responsible for the stolen magic, but he didn't know what he was doing. Nobody knew back then. Baz is the one who figured it all out, that night. But it was already too late for Hampshire.

I would be lying if I said that I wasn't worried for Simon's mental health being back here. And I would have strongly objected when Simon asked to come along (I suppose he's the reason we're here), except that he's been sharing things he and his therapist are working on, and confronting the past and allowing himself to let go, to forgive himself, is a big step on his way to healing.

I'm trying to stay positive about it all. It's a good sign that Simon has opened up about therapy. (And that he went back.)

He and I have both been working on Baz to go to therapy, too, but then Agatha tried to tell me that I should go, and I didn't know how to feel about that. I just don't think there's anything a therapist will be able to tell me that I don't already know.

(And what does Agatha think she knows about it? She's the one who ran off— _to another country_ —rather than deal with anything. I'm the one who stayed behind to try to hold Simon together. If I needed therapy, I would never have been able to do that.)

"Dude!" Shepard says in awe, standing with his hands on his hips as he takes in the whole edifice. "This is your house?"

Baz does an admirable job of not rolling his eyes. "It's my family's home."

"This explains so much," Shepard says, shaking his head. "Are those gargoyles on the roof?"

" _A_ gargoyle," Baz corrects.

"Yeah, but you should see his bedroom. His whole bed is covered in them. There are forty-two."

Everyone turns to stare at Simon. He blushes and looks down at his feet. "I—um."

Baz just shakes his head and hands Simon their bags. We packed lightly. None of us knows how long we're going to be able to stay here. Well, none of us with magic. I suppose Simon and Shepard could be quite comfortable staying here indefinitely. Except that they'd be staying in Pitch Manor, which looks like a vampire's literal fever dream. (It's like Baz's family _wanted_ him to become a vampire.) (Although the modern touches are very nice and homey, thanks to Baz's stepmother.)

Agatha pulls her pink roller bag from the boot of Dr. Wellbelove's Volvo and sets it beside Lucy, who is still panting from all of the excitement of the car ride. (At least the dog was able to enjoy it.) She's still looking down at Lucy as she says, "I still don't know how I ever let you talk me into coming here." She shudders. "It feels awful."

"You lived in California without magic for over a year," Baz says. "I'm sure you'll be able to make do."

"I lived without my wand," she says. "Not without magic."

"Well, some of us don't have a choice," Simon says, but there isn't as much bitterness in his voice as there used to be. I think having Shepard around, and working with my dad, has been doing just as much good for him as therapy.

"No one talked you into anything," I tell Agatha. "I volunteered to help my dad, and Simon wanted to come along. Whither Simon goes, so does Baz. And we can't seem to get rid of Shep—"

"I'm your boyfriend, Penelope."

I don't dignify that.

"The only person you have to blame for being here is you," I say, moving toward the front door.

It's just as imposing as I remember. The doorbell is one of those old-fashioned cord thingies. When we were here that day, Agatha had taken one look at it, turned to me, and said, "this was your idea, you pull it. I'm not about to fall through a trap door to my doom. I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime."

I had rolled my eyes, but there was a tiny part of my brain that wondered.

(I didn't fall through a trapdoor.)

Seeing as we're all alone out here, it should probably be harder to get into the house than just turning the doorknob, but I suppose there isn't much risk of someone wandering in from the middle of nowhere on the very small chance that whoever lives at the manor would leave the door unlocked.

Agatha's right behind me.

I look around for Shepard, finding him meandering along the front drive, staring open-mouthed at the house and the grounds, and very obviously making extensive mental notes.

"Shepard!" I call out to him. "Close your mouth and come inside!"

"Penelope, this place is amazing!"

I groan. "The inside is even better. They have a Japanese toilet that plays music."

He stops walking and looks over at me. "Is it a magickal toilet?"

"No. I told you, it's Japanese."

He shrugs, but at least he starts toward the door. "I don't know why anyone would bother with a musical toilet in a house like this unless it was magicked."

"You can take it up with the Pitches."

"The Grimms," Baz corrects me. "A lot of people make that mistake."

"Who are the Grimms, again?" Shepard asks.

"My father's family. This house belongs to my mother's family."

"Then why did your father live here instead of Fiona?"

"Because my mother was older than Fiona and she inherited the house," Baz explains as he and Simon bring up the rear. "Actually, my father was the only one living here when my mother was killed. She lived full time at Watford, and I stayed there with her; we only came to visit Hampshire in the summers."

"You really did grow up at Watford, didn't you?" Simon asks, sounding a little taken aback.

"I told you that."

Have they really not had this conversation? I swear to Stevie, they are absolutely hopeless.

We're going to have to lock them in a broom cupboard or something until they learn how to properly communicate.

Simon sets down the two bags he's been carrying, stretching out his back, his wings unfurling and coming dangerously close to taking out some centuries-old wallpaper. "I'm hungry."

"Of course you are," Baz says, his voice and his smile fond.

Shepard has knelt down to scratch Lucy's chin and her eyes are closed and one of her paws is hitting against the parquet flooring in time to his scratches.

Agatha is shaking her head at all of us, but there's a soft look in her eyes that she can't seem to help. I know that look, because it's the one I always give the rest of them, too.

And that's when I realise it.

We're all here together because we don't really fit anywhere anymore, except with each other.

I suppose that's the real reason we all made this completely mental trip out to magickless Hampshire just so I could run experiments and Simon could spread his wings and Baz could hunt in peace.

Because we're a family, and families stick together.

"Come on, you miserable lot," Baz says. "I'll give you the _grand tour_."

"To the kitchen first?" Simon asks hopefully.

Baz rolls his eyes. "Fine."


	2. Day 2: Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz is dramatic and yearning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, and bit of a departure from Day 1.

**BAZ**

I feel a world and a lifetime removed from this place. This house that was not a home.

All the distance travelled from my life before to my life now.

I am not larger, but it feels smaller.

Distance is a relative thing.

I measure my life not by ruler or tape.

My course has been traced in people.

Most of it marked along the miles by one man.

What is the distance from the one to the other? From me to him. The stretch of the webbing between his spines? The reach above his head?

How far is it, between the planes of his back? (I can fit my hand there, when he lets me.)

How long the span of his wings? (He can cover me completely.)

When that tail unfurls, how long does it go? (Around his waist, around mine.)

Where does its compass arrow point? Home? Away? To me?

If I followed the points on the map of his skin, what land would it traverse? If I connected the dots, would a picture appear? One that would tell me the secrets of him.

What is the distance between him and me, and how do I cross it? Some days far distant and some days nonexistent.

Will he find peace here? Will the wide expanse of that clear winter sky give him the freedom he needs? Or will it pull him away from me?

I open my mouth, the distance between my lips barely an inch. He opens his mouth, a chasm in a yawn. What is the distance between my lips and his? Each day a new number, each number a new tensile strength.

Perhaps we are a muscle made stronger for the work. The heart is nothing without muscle, and I am nothing without his.

I stand all awash in a sea of numbers and variables, the choppy waters of need roiling in my gut, until a tether winds around my wrist, lashing me to the dock, pulling me back in.

I look up from that harpoon hook of a tail, which in its own way has speared me through, and he spreads his lips wide.

Three inches between the top of his head and the top of mine.

I close the distance. (I bow to him.) And he lets me.

It always feels like coming home.


	3. Day 3: Retellings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon thinks about the last time he was in Pitch Manor.

**SIMON**

It feels weird being back here.

I still remember the first time I visited, that Christmas. When...when everything happened.

I should have borrowed a phone and just tried calling Baz. (Looking back on it, I'm not sure where I would have gotten his number.) But I wasn't thinking. (Because I was never thinking.) I just knew that I had to see him.

Where would we be now if I hadn't gone?

What would have happened if I'd stopped to ask myself _why_ I needed to see him? Not just that day, but every day.

Back then I had to see Baz like I had to breathe. Most days, it still feels that way. Except for the days when being close makes me feel like I'll suffocate. (Even then, I still feel like I can't breathe when he's not there.) Those days are the worst. For both of us. But I think they're getting better.

The last time I stood in this doorway, I was dripping snow and muck all over the place and Baz just raised his eyebrow at me, looking so superior, like he didn't care one whit that I had left him. (I know he did, the git. He was in love with me all that time.)

The first time I stood in this doorway, I was still dripping snow and muck all over, and Baz was still raising that eyebrow. But that was before. It's hard to remember there was a time that I looked into his eyes and thought he was my enemy.

What would it have been like, coming to stay here, if I really had been here for the holiday? If I'd already been his boyfriend?

He probably wouldn't have made me walk the five miles to his house from the main road, but you never know with Baz.

(I wonder if he still would have been wearing those jeans.) (He's wearing jeans now and I'm not mad about it.)

We stop at the kitchen and I can still picture Baz standing in the light from the refrigerator, his face flush from the blood of a deer and snogging me in the middle of the woods, his hands trembling a bit because he was nervous and frightened I was going to pretend that nothing had happened between us.

It's only then I realise that Baz has always been scared I was going to pull away from him.

I'm still holding his arm with my tail, so I pull him closer to me and give him a smile. I don't know how he's feeling about being back here. Maybe his head's as full of memories as mine is.

Once I'm settled for snacks, Baz leads us through the dining room.

It's empty today, of course. But before, Daphne was working at the table on her laptop. Would she have welcomed me with open arms, if Baz had introduced me as his boyfriend that day? Or would she still have asked me if I was here on a mission from the Mage? I don't think I'd have come here on a secret mission, to search through my boyfriend's family's things, even if he'd given me a direct order. But I do know that I definitely would have died before I told him I was coming here with Baz. Or that I was dating Baz. (He had Baz kidnapped and tortured for six weeks without any of that. What would he have done to him if he'd known about us? If I disobeyed him because of Baz?) (I can't think about that now. I don't want to think about that now, and it won't do anyone any good, because all that's in the past.)

The last time I was in this room, I was wearing one of Baz's suits and trying not to be terrified of his dad, who kept looking at me like he was trying to figure out where to hide my body. If he'd known that I'd spent the night with Baz wrapped up in my arms after kissing him senseless, I fancy I'd have been upgraded to the full shovel talk treatment. They do have their own woods. It's not like it would have been hard.

(I never did find out if this house has a dungeon... I guess I'll have lots of time to explore.)

Baz is leading us all on the same route through the house that we took my first time here.

Down too-long hallways and through too-large rooms, the gaudy and ornate furniture still there, no dust or cobwebs in sight. I suppose Vera would have been in to dust and sweep and things.

We pass the library and I think about Christmas Eve. I think about leaving Baz because he kept acting like he didn't want me here. And then I think about running all the way back because I wanted to be here. With him.

I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't come back, but then I decide not to think about that, because I don't like the answer.

Instead, I think back to that other night in the library, when it was just him and me, looking for clues, Baz still denying he was a vampire and me still insisting that he was. If we were dating, he'd have had to tell me he was a vampire.

Then, instead of **_Fine Tooth Comb_** ing the books, we could have been focusing on each other. I'd have pushed him up against the shelves and he could have nibbled on my neck. I think I'll try that one later. When he's not expecting it. (When we're alone.)

Penny's already drooling over finally getting the chance to go through all those books.

The whiteboard is still set up in there. Its two columns erased years ago: Everything We Know and Everything We Still Don't.

I've been working on a new list in my head: Everything I'm Going to do to Baz When I Get Him Alone.

I don't know why, but it feels easier, thinking about those sorts of things, now that we're here. Maybe it's being away from our routine. Maybe it's the change of scenery. Or the fact that Baz decided to come here, even though it meant he wouldn't have his magic.

Or it's being back in this house, where _we_ started, at this time of year.

It'll be our anniversary soon.

That sends me into a bit of panic spiral, so I try to focus on something else: the night it happened, when I asked him. After dinner, before bed. Being in Baz's bedroom, sitting with him, eating with him, kissing him. All of the time we spent there was good time. It's like, it exists somewhere outside of our lives, where all the other stuff doesn't touch us.

It's almost impossible to imagine, not having any ghosts to lay to rest, or skeletons to dig up, or mysteries to solve. If Baz and I had just been regular boyfriends with regular problems.

(Do those kinds of people even exist?)

We're headed towards the staircase now, and the second floor. And it's just us, Baz and me. Penny's still in the library, I think, and Agatha was going to take Lucy for a walk, and Shepard said something about finding the toilet.

I'm walking behind Baz, and the view from here really is spectacular. (There's a good reason seeing Baz in jeans for the first time awakened something in me.) (It's awakening something in me now.)

I grab his wrist, with my hand this time, and he stops, turning around halfway up a stair. "What, Snow?"

"Can I sneak into your bedroom again tonight?"

Baz rolls his eyes, but he's smiling anyway. (Because I'm bloody irresistible.) "We're sharing a room, you numpty."

"So the answer is yes?"

He sighs. "If we must. Yes."

I'm smiling, too. "Don't tell me it won't be fulfilling every single one of your teenage fantasies having me all to yourself in that big old bed."

He raises an eyebrow at me. "I said we were sharing the room. I never said we were sharing the bed."

I try to pout, but it's hard because I'm also sort of laughing. "Oh, come on, Baz. Let me sleep with you!"

"I'm going back to London," I hear Agatha call up the stairs behind us. (I suppose we're not as alone as I'd hoped.)

I start laughing even harder.

"If the two of you can't control yourselves—!" Penny yells up.

Baz ignores them. To me he says, keeping his voice quiet for only me to hear: "You can sleep with me."

"In your arms?"

He wasn't expecting that. His eyes drop to his feet and his smile turns a bit bashful.

"Fitfully," he says and I fly up to kiss his cheek.


	4. Day 4: Side Characters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz really wishes Fiona would stop calling and Fiona really wishes Baz would just answer his bloody phone!

**FIONA**

I know he's screening his calls, the spoilt little shit.

_"Snow and I are going to pop down to Hampshire for a few weeks,"_ he said, like he was going out for a coffee.

He didn't even have the decency to tell me to my face. Left it on voicemail.

If he thinks he's going to get away with that...

What on earth's a mage doing visiting a dead spot for? Is he trying to get himself killed? They're all fools if they think they'll last a whole night there.

I blame the boyfriend. He's the only reason Hampshire turned into a dead spot. Just sucked all the magic right out of our family's ancestral home.

We used to have wards set, all around the house and the woods, but they're long gone now and we can't set more without magic. I don't care if the manor's secluded, it's far from safe. The forest already went up in flames once. (Also, thanks to the boyfriend.)

Maybe this is Basil's bid to finally make himself a martyr to his love for the Salisbury boy. Crowley knows he's been trying for years.

Someone should tell him that star-crossed melodrama went out with Romeo and Juliet. (I'll bet he's got that whole bloody play memorised.) (Hopeless romantic, just like his mother.)

Three calls so far he's left me to cool my heels. If he pushes me to voicemail one more time, I've half a mind to go down there myself.

I've been in worse places hunting much scarier things. A lovesick, anemic vampire whose nappies I used to change will hardly present any challenge for me.

The house belongs to the family, anyway. Perhaps I could just pop down for a weekend and repossess it. It needs someone with the right kind of aesthetic.

My call gets sent to voicemail yet again. The insolence of this boy.

I'm going to murder him.

**BAZ**

"Is that your phone again?" Simon whines.

I let out a disgruntled exhale; the force of my breath shifts his curls off his forehead momentarily. "I knew she wasn't going to let this go."

"Is it Fiona?"

"Who else?"

"Why don't you just answer it then and she'll leave you alone?"

I give his cheek a peck. "It's cute that you think that."

He rolls his eyes and steps away, returning to his suitcase to finish unpacking. He still doesn't have much in the way of what one would call a wardrobe, but seeing as his wings are going to be out the entire time we're here, it's probably best he not ruin too many shirts making slits up the back. (I'm secretly hoping he dispenses with them altogether, even if this isn't quite the romantic holiday retreat I would like.) (Snow needs this trip for his peace of mind. And there's probably a part of me that does, too.)

"Why is she so wound up about all this anyway?" He asks.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. Four missed calls, all from Fiona. Not a single voicemail.

"I think she's worried about me," I say. Not that she would ever admit it.

Simon stops mid-step and looks over at me. "Oh. Well, that's sort of nice. Maybe you should answer."

I tuck my phone back into my pocket. It hasn't started ringing again. Yet. "Best not to encourage her."

"Baz."

I don't want to talk to Fiona, because if I do, she's going to try to convince me this was a very bad idea. But we need this. Snow and I. We need this and I'm not going to let anyone, even my aunt, utter badass that she is, interfere with that.

If I don't answer the phone, what are the odds she comes charging down in her MG to drag me out by the ankles and toss me in the boot?

_"The back seat is for people who've never run off to magickless Hampshire with their dragon boyfriend. Jesus Christ, Baz!"_

**FIONA**

I'm tucking my keys into my jacket pocket when the other pocket starts vibrating.

I pull my phone out and glare at the screen.

It's a power move, is what it is. The insolent fucker.

Maybe he's not as hopeless as I'd feared.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't leave right now, boyo."

"I swear to Stevie," he sighs.

"You've been spending too much time with the Bunce girl."

"So you've told me."

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I am perfectly fine and there is absolutely no reason that you need to come here."

"It's a dead spot, Baz."

"I'm aware. I was here when it happened, if you'll recall. And I am the one who figured out what was causing them."

"That doesn't mean you should be living in one!"

I hear his boyfriend's voice in the background. Speaking of dead spots. "Did you call her? Tell her I say hi."

"I will do no such thing," Baz mutters.

"Hi, Fiona," Snow calls. I roll my eyes.

To me, Baz says, "we're just here for the holiday."

I snort. "Oh, yes, nothing says holiday cheer like a charming stay in the middle of ground zero."

He doesn't have anything to say to that.

"I'm coming to get you," I tell him, moving back toward the door.

"Fiona, please! Don't."

There's a new pitch to his voice that makes me pause.

"I'm worried about you," I admit. It's not my finest moment.

"I know," he says. "And—" I can hear him inhale deeply —"I appreciate that. But I'm fine."

"Baz."

I can hear a noise on the line, like a door being closed. Baz's voice gets quieter. He's trying not to be overheard.

"We need this, Fi. Please. This…we just need to be here right now. Alone."

"You're not alone," I remind him. I know he's brought his whole posse.

He chuckles. "Okay, then. We need to be here without my aunt barging into the room without knocking."

"How does your father feel about this?"

No answer.

"You haven't told him." I don't even try to keep the smugness out of my voice.

I'm sure Malcolm will be thrilled to learn of his son's latest harebrained scheme.

"Please, Fiona. He wouldn't understand. You're the only one I've told."

"You're a devious, ungrateful cur."

"Love you, too, Fi."

I huff.

I don't know what to say to that.

We both fall quiet. It's awkward.

"Are you going to be all right?" He asks.

"What are you on about? I'm always fine."

"I meant, for Christmas."

"Don't get sentimental on me, Bazza."

"I'm sure Daphne would be thrilled with someone to fill my seat at dinner."

"You're on thin ice."

"Mordelia's a nightmare. Could do with someone to put her in her place."

"I know someone else that fits that description."

"Only one thing to be done about it, then."

"Oh, come off it."

"Happy Christmas, Fi. Give Father my best when you see him."

Then he hangs up.

And I'm left standing in my flat wondering what in the hell just happened.

I think I'm spending Christmas in Oxford.


	5. Day 5: Sleepless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard makes a new friend, Simon makes a sandwich, Baz makes hot chocolate, Penelope makes a phone call, and Agatha makes tea.

**SHEPARD**

This house is completely insane!

I can't believe Baz actually lived here.

(Actually, no, I definitely can.)

The vibes here are immaculate. Too bad we need magic to do a seance. There've got to be tons of pictures of Baz's old, dead relatives around. I bet we could call on one of them, maybe uncover some secret family scandal that they took to their grave. That seems like the kind of thing this group would be into. Didn't they solve a murder Scooby style when they were in school? (Did the Scooby gang ever solve murders? Maybe that was too dark for a kids' show.)

I've been wandering around on my own for a while. After dinner, we sat around and talked about Penelope's research, but I think I was the only one listening. Agatha didn't even try to hide her yawns. She just stood up in the middle of a sentence (Penny's, not hers) and headed off to bed. Simon and Baz disappeared shortly after that.

Penny was annoyed, but she refused to go on, even when I tried to encourage her.

We headed upstairs to bed.

We aren't sharing a room. We're not there yet.

I put my things down on a bed with four posters that are wider than I am and decided to go and investigate the house now that I was alone. I wanted to find one of the secret passages Penelope told me about earlier. (I'm pretty sure she just told me that to get me out of her hair, but this is exactly the kind of place that would have a secret passage, so I'm going to look.)

It's cold and rainy and dark out. Perfect ambiance for a late night solo snoop of a Victorian mansion owned by a vampire.

I'm peeking into the other bedrooms right now. One of them's got yellow spray paint on the wall: Never mind the bollocks. Whoever lived here must have been a Sex Pistols fan. Probably not a ghost. Probably Baz's aunt. She's intense.

I close the door quickly and make a note not to go back in there. I do _not_ want to get on the bad side of a Speaker like Fiona Pitch. (You've gotta be pretty cold to become a slayer when your own nephew is a vampire.)

The next room I wind up in looks like a nursery, but from back when this house was first built. I'm not sure how old it is, but this room has all the looks of a set for a horror movie with some creepy doll. (This is a haunted house.) (Or it was, I guess.) There's an old rocking horse and a mobile spinning very slowly above an old crib frame with wooden spindles carved just as ornately as my four-poster bed. I think the only thing missing is the doll.

I'm just about to close the door on this room and move on when I hear a kind of groaning sound. I think it's just the door at first, and some hinges that need oiling, but then I hear it again, after the door is closed.

I open the door and wait. Another groan.

I think it's coming from an old bureau against one wall. I switch the light back on, step inside, and close the door behind me.

**AGATHA**

I _cannot_ believe this!

I was having a very pleasant dream where nothing bad happened only to be woken up by some very upsetting noises.

I try to roll over and go back to sleep, to ignore it, but then I very distinctly hear someone in another bedroom moan someone else's name. I will admit that perhaps it wasn't the most brilliant idea I've ever had, to come along on this fool's errand with two couples, but I thought they would at least have more sense than this. (Although, knowing Baz, he could very well be doing it on purpose. There is no other explanation for why I should be hearing his voice clear across the hall.)

It's…obscene. The sort of thing no one should ever be subjected to outside of watching an adult film. Possibly, not even then.

It's so bad, it's nearing on comical.

" _Merlin and fucking Morgana!_ " I swear. "This can't be happening!"

I sit up immediately. Lucy is pacing around the bed, whining. I pull her into my arms, and try to calm her down.

As soon as she goes quiet, I realise everything else has, too. I let out a relieved breath and check the clock on my phone. It's after one.

I don't know if I'll be able to go back to sleep after this.

I'm contemplating my odds when the noises start again.

A deep, low moaning. Then a kind of a _thump_. Then, more moaning.

I look down at Lucy. Her large black eyes stare back up at me. She looks just as horrified as I feel.

"Oh, for Crowley's sake," I groan. "Can't they at least keep it down? It's not like we don't all know what they're getting up to behind closed doors. This is just rude!"

Lucy makes a little whine of agreement.

I sit there for a little longer, hoping I haven't actually heard what I think I did. Hoping that it will pass.

It's quiet for several minutes, and I'm just starting to relax and convince myself that I was imagining things. It is an old house. I'm sure it's filled with a lot of creaking parts.

But then it starts up _again_ , only this time, it sounds like it's coming from a different direction, from the room next to mine. Penny's room.

We're surrounded.

I hear Penny's voice calling Shepard's name.

"What? Are they having a competition?" I ask Lucy.

They've let me no choice but to intervene. It's not like I can cast a silencing spell. (It's not like anyone else here did.)

Which is how I come to be crawling out of a very warm and comfortable bed in the middle of the night.

"This is too much!" I grumble, putting Lucy back down on the coverlet and swinging my legs to the side. The bed is so bloody high I almost have to use the step stool tucked under the nightstand to reach the floor. My legs are long, though, so I slide down the remaining couple of inches into my waiting slippers, grab for my robe (because the fire's gone out and it's colder than a witch's wit), pull it around myself, and belt it. Then I look at Lucy. "Come on, let's go tell these sex maniacs to keep the noise down. Some of us actually appreciate sleep."

Lucy lolls her tongue at the prospect of a nighttime adventure and bounds down after me, using the large trunk at the end of the bed as her step down. She is so enthusiastic, she must manage to unseat it from its usual spot, because it scrapes across the floor, making its own sort of moan as wood scrapes on wood. I wince. "Careful, Luce."

She pants at me, bounds to the door, lets out a small yip, and runs back to me. She's anxious to investigate the odd noises.

I'm not.

I am quite certain I know exactly what is making those noises, and the less information I have about it all, the better.

I can almost understand in Simon and Baz's case. (I mean, I can't understand the _noise_. That's entirely uncalled for.) Baz spent all of Watford pining after Simon and they're still working through things. And Baz is exactly the sort of kinky, romantic sap who would plan some big rose petal seduction in his childhood bed. ( _I am not thinking about this!_ Damn them for making me think about this.)

I look after Lucy, who is bounding across the hallway toward Baz's old bedroom. Toward my doom.

It's Penelope I don't understand. She has more sense than this. It's why she insisted that she and Shepard would be staying in separate rooms. (Maybe I was the fool for thinking that also meant they'd actually be _stay_ ing in separate rooms. Not bed hopping at all hours of the night.)

Once Lucy reaches Baz's door, she runs back to me, then back to the door. I'm close enough that I can see what she's trying to tell me: the door is open.

_Open_ for snakes' sake!

"What in Morgana's name do you think you're doing?" I cry, as loudly and with as much annoyance as I can put into my voice. I approach slowly, using my hand to try to shield my eyes, and hoping I don't bump into something.

I receive no answer. The moaning picks up again, and the thumping, and then a clicking.

"What?" I ask, dropping my hand. I look at Lucy, then up at the open doorway.

The room is empty. Someone has been in the bed, because the covers are thrown back on either side, like the people in it fled just as quickly as I left my own room.

The noises weren't coming from Baz's bedroom. But I definitely heard his voice earlier.

I look behind me, at the door across the hallway, the one next to my own room.

I walk over, cautiously. "Penny?" I call.

"Penelope?"

I lean my head against the door, which is still closed. There's that moaning and clicking again. Now that I'm closer, I can tell they're not actually sex sounds. (I suppose I'm not much of an expert, but I think I know enough.)

"Penny?" I call out, louder this time.

"Down here!"

I jump and spin around. Penelope's voice came from behind me. She's standing at the top of the staircase, her hair wild around her, holding her phone with the torch shining directly into my eyes.

"Aleister Crowley, Penny! What's going on?"

"I don't know," she says seriously. She has that look on her face like she's trying to solve a puzzle. I don't like that look. "I heard something and woke up. I went to check on Shepard, but he wasn't in his room. It doesn't look like he ever went to bed, or even unpacked his things. I thought I'd go and look for him, make sure he's not off getting himself murdered or something."

"You mean, he wasn't with you?"

She looks confused. "No."

I decide not to press. "Well, if you're worried about him, you should have woken the rest of us. We could have helped you to look for him."

I don't tell her that she actually had woken me and that I thought she'd been doing something much less innocent than trying to locate her lost boyfriend.

She waves me off. "I'm sure he's fine. Probably just making friends with the coblin-webs."

"And what's going on in your room?" I ask.

Penny frowns. "What's going on in my room?"

I huff. "There's something moaning in there and click-clacking around."

Penny laughs. "Oh, come off it! There's nothing—"

The bedroom door behind me shutters in the jamb and I screech and leap forward, spinning around to watch it. It looks like it's breathing. "That's no coblin-web," I say.

"Fascinating!" Penelope gasps, coming the rest of the way up the stairs and into the hallway.

"What're you doing?" I hiss, as if the door will hear me and know that I'm talking about it. Maybe it will; could be infested with stirmites. They live to make trouble. "Don't go over there."

Lucy has planted all four of her small legs in the middle of the hallway and is growling at the door.

"Lucy, no," I tell her, scooping her up. I turn back to Penelope, struggling with Lucy, who is trying to get out of my arms. She's a bit too large to be carried, but I can handle her weight. "We need to find the boys."

Penny looks startled. "Boys? What do you mean, the boys? Aren't Sim—"

I'm shaking my head. "They must have left their room in a hurry."

Penny actually looks worried for the first time tonight. "Right. Something must be going on. Let's go."

She heads back down the staircase. I roll my eyes, set Lucy down, who thankfully follows Penelope and doesn't try to go back toward the cursed bedroom door, and walk over to the nearest wall switch. The stairs are instantly bathed in warm, golden light. Penelope startles and looks up at me, a bit sheepish. "Unless you were enjoying sneaking around in the middle of the night with a torch like some kind of Gothic heroine."

She turns off her phone light and slips her mobile into the strap of her cami-bra.

As soon we reach the bottom of the staircase, we hear more noises. Voices.

We look at each other, shrug, and follow them.

It's Simon and Baz, in the kitchen. Of course it is, because what else could rouse Simon from his slumber but the lure of a late night snack?

"Hullo!" He greets around a mouthful of a roast beef sandwich.

"Ugh," Penny grimaces. "Close your mouth."

Lucy smells the roast beef and runs over to beg. I leave her be.

"What are you both doing up?" Baz asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Perhaps we should ask you the same thing," Penelope retorts.

"Snow's a bottomless pit, what else is new? He woke up, felt hungry, and wandered down here in search of sustenance. The cold woke me up, and when I realised he wasn't in the room, I went looking for him."

That explains the voices then. But not the moving beds and breathing doors.

Baz is stirring something in a pot on the stove.

"Is that hot chocolate?" I ask. "Or blood?"

Even if this lot wasn't actually responsible for disturbing my sleep (possibly for this lifetime), I'm still feeling tetchy.

Baz rolls his eyes and turns away from me.

"Baz!" Simon suddenly says. "You haven't had anything to drink since we got here. You should have gone out before bed."

"I'm fine, Snow," Baz says tiredly.

The two of them have arguments over the weirdest things. I still don't understand how Simon can just stand there and tell Baz he should go kill and drain the blood out of an innocent woodland creature when he used to stomp around Watford telling anyone who would listen that Baz was a monster who was going to drain _him_ dry in his sleep.

"Is there enough hot chocolate to go around?" Penelope asks, grabbing the mug she used earlier from the drying rack next to the sink and settling herself in on a stool at the large island in the middle of the kitchen.

"Penelope," I say.

She looks over at me. "What?"

"I thought you were worried about your boyfriend getting trapped in a coblin-web."

Her eyes go wide behind her glasses. "Has anyone seen Shepard?"

"Shep?" Simon asks. "No. I just assumed he was in bed asleep."

"Where we should all be right now," Baz sighs dramatically.

"Oh, piss off," Simon chuckles, giving him a swat on his back. "You followed me. I didn't make you get up."

"Guys!" Penny calls our attention back to her. "This is serious! Shepard didn't go to bed last night. He could be anywhere!"

"It can't be that serious," Baz drawls, "if you forgot about him."

"I don't know," Simon says. "This house is full of creepy things; I heard some weird noises earlier. I didn't think it was anything to worry about, but if Shep wasn't with you, Pen...then I don't know what I heard."

Penelope turns to look at Simon. "What? You thought you heard Shepard earlier? Where?"

Simon is blushing now. "N-not exactly," he says, picking at something on the granite countertop on the island. "I thought I heard the two of you. Together. Being together."

Penny's jaw goes slack, her mouth falling open. Then she bursts out laughing. "You thought Shepard and I were having loud, wild sex in Pitch Manor?"

"I heard the same thing," I say. "But I thought it was all four of you."

Every single one of them stops and turns to stare at me with mouths and eyes open wide in horror. "I mean—no! Not together. I mean, Penny with Shepard and Baz with Simon."

"Well, I can't speak for Bunce, but it definitely wasn't us," Baz says, sounding disgruntled.

"Please," Penelope huffs. "I have much better self-control than you do."

"Guys!" Simon shouts. "Shepard is missing, remember? We should probably go look for him, yeah?"

"We could try calling him?" I suggest.

"Of course," Penelope cries, yanking her phone out of her shoulder strap.

I roll my eyes and take a seat. I have a feeling we're going to be here a while.

"Also, Penny's bedroom door was breathing. That's probably—"

"What did you say?" Baz asks, abandoning his pot of chocolate and the spoon. "A breathing door?"

"Yes, and moaning. Clicking. Something that sounded like a bed hitting against the wall."

Baz stares at me for a few seconds, then he looks at Simon. "Is that what you heard?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Kind of, maybe."

Baz looks back at me, then at Simon, and then he runs from the room.

"Baz!" Simon calls, running after him. Lucy hops around, not sure if she should join in the chase.

"Shepard isn't answering his phone," Penelope tells me. "I keep trying. I texted him, too. Either he really is in trouble, or he's going to be the moment I find him."

I put a hand on Penny's shoulder. "Let's go see what Baz is up to. This is his house. He'll know where to look for Shepard."

She nods and stands and we make our way back up the stairs. The sounds of Baz's footsteps above us blur together, he's moving so fast. Vampire super speed. Whatever is going on upstairs really has him worked up.

Lucy takes the lead, charging off down the hallway as soon as she reaches the top landing, me keeping pace behind her, and Penny bringing up the rear, listing all of the terrible fates that Shepard has likely met since bedtime, or will meet if she finds him alive.

"What's going on?" I shout to Baz and Simon who are standing in a doorway at the far end of the hall from the stairs, putting the full force of my frustration into my voice.

Neither one of them is moving. They're still as statues. Is there a gorgon lying in wait to turn her next victim to stone?

"And where is Shepard?" Penelope adds.

Finally, far too calmly, Baz gestures toward the doorway. Penelope runs on ahead and into the room without hesitation. I follow, much slower. 

"What is going on here?" I ask again.

"Shepard!" Penny's voice carries from inside the room. "What are you doing in there?"

I know I'm not getting out of this until I see for myself what's happening.

"Pen!" Shepard's voice cries out, filled with the sort of excitement only he gets about very weird things. "You have to see this! It's incredible!"

They're in another bedroom, a nursery. Shepard's backside is on full display (in pyjamas, thank Merlin) peeking out from inside a massive wardrobe that takes up one entire wall. The wardrobe is moving around on its own, with Shepard crouched down on the bottom of it, the whole top half of his body obscured behind one of the doors.

If there's some kind of portal to a secret fantasy world inside of that wardrobe, I am out of here. I won't even pack my things. Just toss Lucy under my arm and walk back to London and find some nice, sane, Normal friends.

Penelope rolls her eyes so mightily, her head goes with them, but she does give in and kneel down on the floor next to Shepard.

"Wraiths," Baz says.

I turn around and look back at him. "What?"

"Wraiths," he says again. "They've been haunting Pitch Manor as long as it's been here. Every bedroom but mine."

I cross my arms. "Why not yours?"

"Baz creeps them out," Simon says with a smile and a nudge to Baz's side. There is a story there I do not want to hear. "You know, because he's a vampire."

"Fine," I sigh. "So, why are we all in here?"

"Wraiths, Wellbelove," Baz says again.

Penelope pipes up behind me, her voice a bit strained from the angle at which she has contorted herself to poke her head under the wardrobe, inspecting it from every angle. "Wraiths need magic to manifest."

"Magic?" I ask.

"This is the coolest thing I've ever seen!" Shepard says. Much more quietly, I hear him murmur, "hey, little guy. Hey, come here. I'm not going to hurt you."

Leave it to Shepard to make friends with the things that go bump in the night.

"There's magic in Hampshire?" I ask.

"There's magic in Hampshire," Baz replies.

Penelope pops up again. "I have to call my dad!"

She runs out of the room, though I'm not sure why. She has her mobile clutched in her hand.

I take one look at Simon and Baz (and the place where Shepard used to be before he crawled all the way inside the wardrobe) and declare, "I'll put the kettle on."

We're in for a long night and hot chocolate isn't going to cut it.


	6. Day 6: WLW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the revelation about magic in Hampshire, Simon reflects on a conversation with Ebb about the burden of magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Include some bonus art at the end!

**BAZ**

I find Simon in Fiona's old room, of all places.

"What are you doing in here?" I ask, nudging the door open the rest of the way.

We spent most of the night in the library, in front of Daphne's old whiteboard, making lists and positing theories (Everything We Know and Everything We Don't), with a half-awake, rather manic, Martin Bunce on speaker.

We've run through every spell we could think of, but none of them are working. I've not even been able to summon a flame. But the feeling, the _potential_ is there. It will happen, soon.

I haven't told my family. I'm not sure how to.

Simon's been very quiet since we found the wraiths. (Since Shepard found the wraiths and we found Shepard.)

Simon is usually quiet, always has been, but this is a different kind of quiet. This isn't his "it's easier to act than talk" kind of quiet. It's his "thousand yard stare" kind of quiet.

I've been around it too much the past couple of years not to recognise it, and the dangers it presents to my emotional well-being, to say nothing of Simon's.

Simon looks up from his spot on the floor. He's seated with his legs crossed in front of him, a large book of some kind open over his knees. He shrugs, but I don't say anything else and I don't move, in the hopes that there is more forthcoming. I've learnt to be patient. We've both been working on that a lot.

"Just...missing things. How they used to be, you know. Not missing really. But thinking about what it was like. Back then. And...whether or not I want it back."

"Your magic?" I ask, as gently as I can. I need him to know that it's not important to me. That it's never been what's important to me.

He nods, a frown marring his face. "I don't know if it ever did me any good. I know I never did any good with it. Just fucked things up and blew up buildings."

"That wasn't your fault."

We know now, why Simon's magic was always out of control. We know who was responsible for making him that way, but I won't say his name. I won't bring him up.

"I don't think that matters."

"Doesn't it?"

"What I mean, is—" he's struggling now. I've been making notes of the signs. His words get tangled up, in his mouth or his head, and he can't get them out the way he wants to, so he clams up and just won't say them. Won't try. I need him to try, though, and he's been working on it.

"What you mean, is," I say, keeping my voice calm and inviting.

He sighs, tugging his curls down with one fist. "What I mean. Is. Is-is that I never learnt properly, did I? I never knew how to use it. And I still can't talk. I'd never get through a spell."

I step inside the room and close the door behind me. This isn't exactly the venue I would have picked for this conversation, but the more important thing to consider is that we're having this conversation. I walk over to him, keeping my steps slower than normal, making sure he's okay with me entering his space. He looks up at me, and there's vulnerability in his eyes, but not panic, so I take a seat next to him. Close enough to feel his body heat, but not so close that we're touching.

I am careful.

Simon drops his head onto my shoulder and I feel my stomach plummet at the thrill of it.

I look at what he's holding. It's Fiona's old memory book, the one we looked at when Simon came to stay here the first time. He's got it open to a page with photos of Fiona, and Nico, and Ebb.

I don't think Simon has any of his own photos of Ebb. I don't think Simon has many of his own photos at all.

There's one I spy, just her and her brother, looking like two very different sides of the same coin. I reach over and pluck it out of the black paper corners holding it in place.

Simon watches me. "I think she had more power than anyone but me," he says quietly, and his voice quavers a bit. "She had so much magic, Baz, and she didn't want it."

"Did she tell you that?"

He raises his head. "What?"

"Did she tell you she didn't want her magic?"

"Well, no. But. But she said it was a burden. She said that your mum told her to keep it in a drawer, and not hanging 'round her neck. That it didn't have to be her destiny and she should let it go."

I never thought I'd have Simon Snow quoting my own mother back at me. "Did she?"

He nods, looking a little embarrassed. "Yeah. I mean, that's what Ebb told me." He lets a small smile escape as he says, "I wasn't paying much attention, though. I'd just found out Ebb's full name was Ebeneza."

I smile, too. "If that's what Ebb said, and what my mother said, then maybe that's what you should do. Natasha Pitch was known to be a fairly good authority on magic now and then."

I know my mother was far from perfect when it came to some things, but the care and preservation of one's own magic was never one of them.

"I'd never have been able to shove my magic in a drawer," he says. "I could barely keep it inside my own skin."

"Simon," I say. The use of his first name has the desired effect and brings all of his focus to me. Good. That's where it belongs. I reach out and touch his cheek with my hand. He leans into my palm and I smile because touching Simon feels better than almost anything else. (With the singular exception of Simon touching me.) "If you do get any of your magic back, it won't be the same. Magic is a natural part of who we are. It's like breathing. It's not a burden, though maybe to some people it feels like that. I think Ebb was a lot like you in that way. Powerful enough that other people wanted to use her."

I think my mother might have been one of them. "What made her a good person," I go on, "what makes _you_ a good person, is that you don't want the power. You don't want to use it to hurt people, or to help yourself. And even if you get your magic back someday, that doesn't mean you ever have to use it. It doesn't define you. I know that you were made to think it did, I know that you had nothing in your life before it, and you think that you don't get to have anything in your life after it, but it's not who you are. It's just another part of you."

I let go of his face and hand him the photo. There are tear tracks running down his cheeks and I reach out to wipe them before he drips onto the picture. "Ebb is proof that you don't have to let it define you."

He nods. I don't think he can talk right now, and that's okay. Just as long as he's listening.

I give him a bit of a nudge, because we've just had a very long night, and the magic returning to Hampshire is good news, and I don't want to see Simon crying. "Did you know she had a thing for the dryad?"

Simon looks up at me. "What? Who?"

"Ebb."

"Ebb had a thing for the dryad?"

I nod. "Maybe even had a thing _with_ the dryad."

"The dryad? The creepy nymph that used to lurk behind trees and never give a straight answer?"

"Maybe she _couldn't_ give a straight answer," I say, raising my eyebrow.

Simon thinks about this for a few seconds, then he laughs. "Wait, wait. How do you know this?" His expression takes a drastic turn. "Did Ebb tell you?"

He sounds hurt. Like maybe Ebb confided something in me that she never told him.

"Didn't you read about it? It was a cover story in _Queer Watford Weekly_."

"No," he gives my shoulder a gentle swat, laughing in spite of himself. Because I'm hilarious. "Really. How do you know?"

"Fiona told me, obviously. She was always telling me stories about her time in school, but she couldn't talk about Nico, for obvious reasons."

"Weird," Simon says, looking back down at the photo. "I guess we had more in common than I knew."

"Did you also have a thing for the dryad, Snow?"

He laughs again and tackles me to the ground. I let him, even though I could fight back. "Shut up, you know you were the only magickal creature I had a thing for."

"I'm sorry, was that past tense?"

"Augh, you're such a git!"


	7. Day 7: Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz goes for a walk in the woods.

**BAZ**

I should have worn a coat.

I'm freezing.

It's still too early for being out of doors, but it's drain a deer or drain my boyfriend.

I try not to think about those very shit alternatives. I try not to think about the last time I hunted here.

I try not to remember the gaping, burning _nothing_ inside of me. The burning nothing all around me. It's not quite nothing now. The forest has grown in, maybe it's bringing the magic back with it.

Hands firmly shoved into trouser pockets, I walk out of sight of the house and I let my senses go.

There is life brimming all around me, but not within me. (I'm still a hole that can't be filled.)

I can hear them, smell them, taste them.

Wings.

Tails.

Feathers.

Fur.

Claws.

Teeth.

Fangs.

Veins.

Arteries.

Blood.

Life.

Salty, metallic life.

_Warm. So warm._

Fighting.

Falling.

Filling.

Flooding.

Hot with life.

Hot with shame.

Stillness. Then—

A wind rustling in the leaves.

Hooves pounding in the dirt.

Paws skittering in the brush.

Beaks screeching in the branches.

Wings beating on the wind.

Every beat a mark in time, a count in the rhythm, a pulse.

_Warm. So warm._

Not predator? Not prey?

Hot and salty and fatty and burnt and—

"Baz?"

A beat.

"Here."

The shift of air, the thud of feet on the ground behind me, the warp of gravity.

Breath.

Arms.

Tail.

Wings.

_Warm. So warm._

"Why don't you have a coat? You're freezing."

"Not anymore."


	8. Day 8: Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz get caught out in the rain.

**SIMON**

The rain starts up without warning.

I've got Baz up against a tree (because he was being pouty about the vampire thing again) (and he was cold) when I feel the first drops on my face.

We've been doing a real good job of ignoring the last time we were out here.

Well, I have, I think. I don't know about Baz. He was quiet when I found him, stood over the body of a dead deer. (Is it bad that doesn't bother me?) (I've suppose I've killed lots of things, and I never did it to feed myself.) Baz is usually quiet after a kill, so I couldn't tell if he'd gone all broody because of the deer, or because of where we are.

He told me he didn't want me to go hunting with him, but I didn't feel right letting him go out alone. I know the Humdrum's gone and Baz is perfectly capable of defending himself against any other creatures, but I still worry. He's a vampire, but he's not a fighter. And even with everything else going on, we've mostly been okay since we got to Hampshire. I didn't want him to get in his head and for things to get bad again.

This forest holds a lot of traumatic memories for both of us, and he shouldn't have to face them alone.

I need to be here with him. Plus, I like watching him hunt.

I can feel him smile into my kiss and I smile, too, because I made him do that.

"Snow. Are you slobbering on me, or is it raining?"

"Shut up." I shove at his shoulder, but I don't pull away.

I have my wings, so I move us back a step and wrap them around him. It's nice inside, just him and me, but it doesn't do much for our legs.

"As much as I'm enjoying this impromptu display of affection, perhaps now is a good time to head back inside?" He hints.

"I thought this was supposed to be..." I trail off because I can't remember the word. My therapist loves to use it. "You know. Uh—"

"Cathartic," he says, before I can think of it. "I can't believe I let you put your tongue in my mouth."

"Hey," I frown. "You're supposed to be nice to me. We're healing."

He rolls his eyes, but I can tell he's only being a prick because he's feeling vulnerable.

"Fine. But do you think that maybe we can heal indoors, where it's warm and dry?"

"Baz," I say, touching my chin to his. He's playing coy and avoiding my eyes.

"What." It's not a question as much as it's a challenge.

"You seem prickly."

"It's because I'm standing in a puddle."

Maybe he was daft enough to come out here without a coat, but he's wearing decent boots.

"It's because you're standing in a dead spot we made."

"We?" He asks.

"Well, I mean, you were there for it."

"It's not a dead spot anymore."

"Sure it is. The trees are proof of that."

"The trees are growing back and so is the magic, which means I can't possibly be prickly that I'm standing in a dead spot because we're no longer in a dead spot. So it must be the puddle."

"Baz," I say again, tightening my hold around his waist. My tail goes along with my arms. (I think Baz actually likes my tail. He hasn't said, but he never seems to mind when I wind it around him. And sometimes he takes hold of it himself.)

"Simon."

"Are we really not going to talk about this?"

"It's raining."

"It rained that night, too."

He does not like this reminder, but I can't help thinking of it. I had just sucked up all the magic in Hampshire, set fire to the forest, and sprouted a pair of dragon wings and a devil's tail. Not to mention that my boyfriend of all of half a night had accused me of being an actual supervillain and sent me packing. (Though, I think he did that last part to protect me from his dad.)

He sighs, sagging a bit against me, and ducks his head to my shoulder. We're clinging to each other now, not just for warmth.

"Aleister Crowley, Simon. Why did we think it was a good idea to come back here?"

"I told you. My therapist said it would be cathartic."

"Right."

Neither one of us speaks for a long while. We just stand there, wrapped up in each other, huddled under my wings. For a second, I think maybe the rain's found a way inside my cover, until I realise that the water dripping slowly onto my shoulder is hot.

I don't remember the last time I watched Baz cry, but I know I was the cause of those tears, too.

I tried to run away from my past. I tried to lock it up and keep it hidden and only look forward, once I thought I was finally through everything.

But life doesn't work like that. And the thing of it is, Baz is as much of my past as he is my future. I don't want to move past him, or lock away the part of him that lives in me. We didn't come to Hampshire to relive the rosy times. We came here because we have old wounds that we can't heal unless we acknowledge them.

Something awful happened to us here, and something wonderful. That's just the way things have always been for us, the good and the bad all mixed up. But the bad is the stuff that happens to us, the good is what we make of it. The good is standing together, when we could fall apart.

So, we stand there, together, and I feel Baz's tears falling on my shoulder, and I feel my own tears running down my cheeks, and I feel the rain beating down on my wings.

Washing us clean.


	9. Day 9: Kids/Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're going to have fun if it kills them.

**PENELOPE**

By the time I get back out of bed, it's nearly midday.

Last night all feels a blur, like a dream. A happy dream, I think. The magic is coming back, at least a little bit, at least in Hampshire. For the first time since they appeared, we have proof that the dead spots are able to recover their magic, to shrink, maybe even to disappear, someday.

We're sitting on perhaps the greatest magickal find of a lifetime—several lifetimes. But things are still so uncertain, and dad felt it was best that we not tell anyone else yet. Except for Baz's family, because they've a right to know. This is their house. Or his house. Or...I'm not really sure anymore who it belongs to. It doesn't really matter, since Baz decided not to tell his family anything after all. I don't understand them. Everything has to go "poetically unsaid" when it comes to the Grimms and the Pitches. Like they're too posh for talking.

It's no wonder Baz grew up to be the way he is, holding everything inside, never showing fear or pain. (Predators do that, too. I wonder if Baz's behaviour can be partially attributed to his vampirism.)

I'm lying in bed contemplating all of this as I stare up at the underside of the guest room's ornately carved canopy. There's a painting there, of nymphs or something. Last night, they were glowing and some of them were kind of hissing. The bed curtains (velvet bed curtains—this house is ridiculous) moved around, like there was a strong wind. It was the wraiths; we made a survey of every bedroom in the house. (They only hang out in the bedrooms.) (If you ask me, I'm not sure how the Grimms managed to have four children. Maybe the wraiths help get them in the mood.)

I tried talking to the wraiths last night, but they would only respond to Shepard. And they don't really talk, just moan and groan and click and shake things. I don't think they like me very much. And they're terrified of Baz. Baz! The man who literally roasted himself undead just so that his boyfriend could ride in a convertible with the top down.

Stevie Nicks and Gracie Slick! What a weird trip it would have been living in a house like this as a kid. I haven't spent much time around Baz's step siblings, but I can vouch they're all far too normal (not Normal) to have spent their formative years living like the fucking Addams Family.

Pitch Manor is one of the most well known and oldest magickal estates in the entire World of Mages. But it's not really the sort of place you raise a family. It's the sort of place you perform magickal experiments and conduct research into archaic, esoteric texts.

That is exactly why we came here in the first place.

I never thought I could live in a place without magic, but we spent so much time in the Quiet Zones in America, and even though they feel a bit different, because the magic in those places is naturally absent, they still have a weird dampening feeling. Like when you get sick and your nose goes all stuffy and you can't smell anything.

I think the true genius was in figuring out that Simon himself was a dead spot. Maybe the biggest dead spot ever created, considering the amount of magic he used to have at his fingertips.

I do want to find a way to fix the dead spots. But I want to find a way to help Simon more.

That was worth coming here, and living in the vacuum.

I sit up, pull my hair into a bun on the top of my head, and put on my glasses.

When I get downstairs, everyone else is there, in the kitchen.

It's pretty obvious no one else had a good night's sleep.

At least Shepard looks pleased to see me. "Penelope!"

"I think we should decorate," I announce. "For Christmas."

"Why?" Agatha asks. She's wearing sweats and Ugg boots. She hasn't put any makeup on and her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, still damp from a shower. This is the most casual I think I've seen her since we were locked in the back of a Mercedes in the Nevada desert.

"Because we need a little Christmas."

Shepard immediately starts singing, because of course he does. (He is a bit cute, isn't he?) He's wearing a horrible Christmas jumper, the kind that's actually bad and not just ironically bad, and writing in a notebook. I hope he's taking notes about last night that he's going to hand over to the research team and not publish on a subreddit. (I know I need to trust him. But it's hard.)

Outside, it's tipping down and if it gets any colder, it'll probably snow. Inside, it's not exactly warm and it's not exactly cosy, but it is dry and there is a kind of elegant ambiance that would do well with garlands and lights. Like one of those old picture postcard Christmases.

I've been using **_We Need a Little Christmas_** for decorating for years, along with **_It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas_** and **_Silver Bells_**. (I bet Baz can't cast that one. He's allergic.)

But none of those spells will work this year. We tried everything last night. Every spell in the book, even the ones we made up ourselves, for eighth year. (Well, I didn't try mine. Nobody was ready to deal with **_Simon Says_** again.) The magic just isn't strong enough yet. It's there, like a light mist—you can feel it, but you can't grab onto it. It's going to take time to fill in to the point where it's usable. Dad doesn't think we should push it, he's afraid that the atmosphere is too fragile here.

He was going to drive out last night, but I talked him out of it. My dad isn't the best driver at the best of times, and he was in no fit state to operate heavy machinery in the middle of the night high on adrenaline. He's going to work on assembling his team.

Which means it's hand decorating for this house. Not an easy feat. I don't think I've decorated by hand since I was a little kid and too young to do the spells. And Pitch Manor is a lot bigger than our house in Hounslow.

"Corking idea, Penelope," Baz drawls. He and Simon are tucked up against each other in the breakfast nook. Baz looks almost rosy against the grey of the afternoon, which means he must have gone out hunting, and not anything small, either. "Where are you going to get the decorations?"

"You don't have Christmas decorations?" I ask.

"On my person? No."

"In the house."

"Probably somewhere. We left in a hurry," he says, and the expression on Simon's face grows dark. "Daphne hired Normal movers and cleaners to come through, afterward—which is appalling enough in itself. I hope Father wiped their memories."

Shepard scoffs at that remark, but Baz goes on as if he hasn't heard him. "Either the decorations went to Oxford, or they're hidden around here in the annals of time."

"Then we can make Christmas decorations!" Shepard says.

Agatha shakes her head. "I don't think so."

"Oh, come on. Didn't you guys ever do arts and crafts? Even little mages have to do arts and crafts."

"I wasn't allowed to have scissors," Simon says. "Not even the safety ones."

Baz turns a bit to look at him. "What were you doing with the scissors, Snow?"

"It wasn't me! None of us were allowed."

"Well, this has been lovely," Agatha declares, standing up from the breakfast table. "But I think I'm going to go back to bed."

Lucy has been lazing on the floor at her feet and hops up at the loss of her Ugg boot bed.

"Nope," I say, crossing my arms. "We're going to make Christmas decorations and we're going to have fun."

"That's the spirit!" Shepard claps.

"None of us got to have real childhoods. So, we're going to live vicariously through Shepard."

"Not quite the same spirit," Shepard says and shrugs. "But I can still work with it." He looks to Baz. "Do you have any construction paper?"

Baz gives him a withering look. "What about me makes you think I would?"

"You have four younger siblings."

"You can check the craft room."

"You have a craft room?" Shepard asks. "Dude, lead with that next time."

"I thought your friends the wraiths would have told you all about the craft room."

Shepard just rolls his eyes. "Sit tight, fam. We're doing holiday crafts."

Shepard's already headed out the door. He's practically skipping with excitement.

"Do you think Shepard's religious?" Simon asks. "I didn't know he was so keen on Christmas."

"I think Shepard's just keen on life," Baz mutters.

"What's wrong with that?" I ask. Shepard is my boyfriend. I should probably stick up for him.

"Forgive me if I'm not brimming with holiday cheer," Baz snipes. "This isn't an easy time of year."

"You don't have to tell me that," I snipe right back. "I was there, too, you know."

"Hey!" Simon shouts. "No one is fighting."

"I'm still going back to bed," Agatha says.

"No! You're staying and we're doing holiday crafts with Shepard and we're having fun!" I feel like crying. This wasn't how this was supposed to go at all. I just wanted a little Christmas cheer.

Maybe I should have stayed home, celebrated with my family instead. Except that I didn't want to do that because the people here are my family. And we're messy and dysfunctional, but we love each other and we need each other.

We're not kids anymore, but the things that happened to us as children still touch us. We can't go back, but we haven't been able to move forward. That's what this trip is all about, finding a way to move forward.

We start by making paper chains. Each ring has a number on it, in order, from 25 to 1. We link them together into garlands. Every day, we're supposed to cut one of the rings off, counting down the days till Christmas. They're advent calendars, though I've never had one before that didn't involve chocolate. (I won't tell Shepard, but I like the chocolate ones better.)

It's a cute idea, a little symbolic, and it means we'll have paper garlands to hang around.

Baz gets huffy at the idea that he has to destroy his in order for it to serve its purpose.

"We can make paper stockings, too," Shepard says. "And if we have enough green paper, we can do wreaths."

"What if I want to make a pink wreath?" Agatha asks. "And a pink stocking."

"You already made a pink paper chain," I tell her.

"I like pink. And they'll match."

Shepard's laughing. "You can make them whatever colours you want. That's part of the fun."

I pull my phone from my pocket and look for a good Christmas playlist. Something suited to children's crafts. A moment later, the opening notes of _I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus_ start blaring from the phone speakers and everyone groans.

"Crowley below, my ears, Bunce!"

"I'm going to make hot chocolate," I say.

"Are there marshmallows?" Is Simon's immediate response. "We should have candy canes, too. Baz, do you have candy canes?"

"Why isn't there any pink glitter?" Agatha complains. Below her, Lucy has a balled up piece of brown paper, which Agatha disposed of because the colour was "offensive", and she's yapping at it and bumping it with her nose, trying to get it to play. (She's not the brightest dog I've ever possessed.)

Baz has made a paper bow and is carefully and surreptitiously trying to place it atop Simon's fuzzy curls while Simon laughs at Lucy. There's already a bow tied around his tail.

This is exactly what we needed.

Shepard's eyes meet mine and he smiles.

He's going to get extra marshmallows.


	10. Day 10: Crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another little art piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No chapter for today because I did art instead. I've had this idea bouncing around in my head for a while, so when I saw Crossover as a prompt, I knew it was my time!

Original tumblr post [here](https://palimpsessed.tumblr.com/post/636633537318207488/carry-on-countdown-2020-day-10) with the full description.


	11. Day 11: Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon meets one of Baz's childhood friends.

**SIMON**

Baz has a secret.

I found out about it before we went to bed the first night. He was going to hang something in his wardrobe. He opened the door, looked in, froze, and then walked inside, closing the door behind him. (Baz's wardrobe is the walk in kind, because he needs that much space for all of his clothes.) (Not that he's brought a lot with him for the holiday, but he definitely brought more than anyone else.)

When he came out, he was almost blushing. But there was also something a little...I don't know. Wistful.

That had my curiosity piqued.

When we got into bed, I snuggled on top of him and buried my head in his neck and tried to ask innocent questions about how he was feeling being back in his old room.

Baz didn't take the bait. He wrapped his arms around my back and told me that I was making fifteen-year-old Baz very happy, now that I was finally in his bed.

Maybe I needed to be more specific.

I'm not worried he's hiding anything from me. Baz isn't really the type. I mean, I suppose he did lie to me for years about being a vampire, but I already sort of knew, and also, he was afraid I was going to turn him in. Or kill him.

I don't think this is a vampire thing. If it was, I don't think Baz would have left whatever it is behind. I mean, if it was something he needed.

It must be something embarrassing. Which makes my mind run down all kinds of possibilities.

I've been trying to figure out how to investigate.

My first move, of course, was to hang up my own clothes in the wardrobe.

Baz snarked at me about it, because I don't really wear the kind of clothes you need to hang.

"Airing out your trackies to make sure they don't get unsightly wrinkles?"

"They're my Sunday best," I'd smiled.

He smiled back, shaking his head at me. "At least hang your suit if you're going to take up wardrobe space."

That had me a bit disappointed. Baz wasn't afraid of me going into the wardrobe. Maybe he wasn't really hiding anything after all. (That would be good, wouldn't it?)

But that smooth wanker. I underestimated his craftiness. I don't know how; I lived with him for seven and a half years. It's not like I don't know how devious he can be. And fucking cool under pressure. (So fucking cool. It's so fucking hot.)

Before I could even reach the door handle, Baz had my suit (which had its own fancy bag because he's an insufferable git who'd insisted I bring the suit in the first place) slung over one arm, and was standing in front of me, opening the wardrobe door himself and holding up his free hand to stop me. "You are completely hopeless, Snow."

I won't tell Baz this, but I sort of like that he still calls me Snow sometimes. Snow is my middle name, it turns out, and Baz is his. Well, Basilton, but still. It's kind of cute. (It's like we match.) (I still prefer Simon, though, which he knows and uses endlessly to his advantage.)

"Give me your things, and I'll put them away in the proper manner."

"Baz, I know how to put my clothes away."

"Do you? Your clean laundry pile on the floor of your bedroom would beg to differ."

"I-I like knowing where everything is and I can't see it if it's stuck in a drawer."

"Right." He'd said. He didn't budge. Unless I wanted to fight Baz, I had to give in and let him put my things away for me. So I did, then I tried to peek over his shoulder to see what was in the wardrobe.

I couldn't see anything, because he didn't turn on the light.

I sort of forgot about it the second day. We were all preoccupied by the wraiths, and the magic, and the decorating.

I only remembered again last night, when we were going to bed, and Baz was hanging his things up again.

When he was done, he closed the door and turned a small metal key, then slipped it into his pyjama pocket. Why did his wardrobe have a keyhole, anyway? And why did he feel the need to lock it when it was only him and me here?

Baz definitely has a secret.

I didn't ask about the lock and I didn't ask about the wardrobe. I tucked myself into bed and contemplated by plan.

And then I fell asleep.

But I'm awake now. Awake, and in the middle of the night. (I still get nightmares. So does Baz, but he's sleeping soundly right now.)

I think all of the catharsis, and Penny's forceful holiday cheer, and Shep's arts and crafts really wore him out. He's sleeping like the...well, like the dead.

Which means the wardrobe is unprotected.

I just have to get the key.

I'm fully committed to thoroughly searching Baz's pockets for it, but then I notice it's lying on his bedside table.

Shame, really.

I'll have to search his pyjama pockets another time. When he's awake.

We still haven't made proper use of the bed. I thought Baz had designs on me the first night, but there is still kind of a big shadow hanging over our heads, and it's a bit hard to get in the mood.

I could stay where I am and reach over Baz for the key. It'd put my face right over his. Maybe he'd wake up and ask me what I was doing and then I'd have to kiss him to distract him and keep him from finding out my plan.

But I have to find out what's in that wardrobe. (I know it's not wraiths in this one. Besides, unless they had a habit of bringing up embarrassing stuff, I don't know why Baz would have been blushing over them.)

I'm sliding out of bed when I realise that maybe this isn't a good idea. Not good like clever, but good like, morally.

I'm snooping. On my boyfriend. A boyfriend I used to stalk around school trying to prove he was a vampire. A boyfriend I used to accuse of plotting against me. And now, I'm plotting against him.

I just want to know what he's got hidden in the wardrobe.

But I don't want to betray Baz's trust.

If he wanted me to know, he'd tell me, wouldn't he?

But why doesn't Baz want me to know?

I don't want us to have secrets. We got into a lot of trouble by never telling each other stuff.

I don't think this is going to be one of those things. But I'd just like to think that we have the kind of relationship where Baz could find something embarrassing and smile sheepishly and say, "Here, Snow, come look at this."

But that isn't who Baz is. He still tries so hard to maintain this perfect, controlled image. Except now I know that's all it is, an image. Underneath, Baz is just as fragile as I am, only he spent his life learning to hide it all because of his family.

I'm Baz's family now. I mean, he still has his family, and I guess maybe I've kind of got family now, too. Anyway, we're each other's real family. We're home. That matters more than anything else. And I want to be a home for Baz. I want to be where he feels safe.

I climb back into bed. He stirs with the movement and reaches over for me. "Simon?"

"Here," I tell him, moving over to him.

"Nightmare?"

"Are you asking if I had one, or calling me one?"

He laughs drowsily. "Yes."

I laugh, too. "Then, yes."

"Come here, love."

"You just want me 'cause I'm warm."

"Yes."

I roll my eyes. I know he doesn't mean it, but we can do this again. Joke with each other a bit. And I like it.

Then, I have an idea. "I'll let you use my body heat if you tell me what's locked in the wardrobe."

His eyes pop open. "What?"

He's still half asleep and his face is soft and his hair is wild over the silk pillowcase. (Did I mention Baz has silk sheets? Because of course he does.) (I bet he won't be eating salt and vinegar crisps and shoving off his crumbs in this bed.)

I give him a light kiss on his cheek, trailing it up his temple, then over his eyelid, his nose. I'm getting close now. "You locked it."

"I don't want moths to get in."

"So you had to lock the door in case they were going to pry it open with their little wings? Everything you own reeks of cedar anyway."

He's laughing again. "Reeks, huh?"

"In the best possible way."

"Why are you so curious about my wardrobe, Snow?"

"Why are you so secretive?"

He lets out a long sigh. "You're not going to let me go back to sleep, are you?"

"I'm not keeping you awake."

"It's embarrassing."

"Why?"

I can tell his face wants to blush, but he doesn't have the blood for it. (I have the blood for it.)

"It just is."

"If you told me, then you wouldn't have to worry about hiding it."

"I wasn't worried. I was the one sleeping very soundly, if you'll recall."

"Baz."

He closes his eyes, groans, reaches over, grabs the key, and hands it to me.

"Don't laugh."

I give him another peck (on the lips this time because he's earned it) and slide down from the bed.

I feel a bit like I'm a kid running down the stairs to see what Father Christmas brought me. I don't really know what that feels like, but I can imagine.

I unlock the door, turn on the light, and see it, there, on a shelf at the back. It's nearly as big as I am. It has a red hat and a blue coat. It's got a little note pinned to its jacket. I smile and walk in to read the note.

_Please look after this bear. Thank you._

It's a giant stuffed Paddington. It looks like it's been snuggled within an inch of its life.

I'm grinning ear-to-ear as I pick up the bear and bring it out with me.

"No," Baz says when he sees me.

"But, Baz, he needs to be looked after!"

"I swear to Stevie, if you bring that thing into our bed—"

"Our bed, huh?" I ask, walking back over. I've still got the bear.

"We are sharing it."

"We are."

"But not with Paddington."

I give him a pout. "But he's lonely and cold."

He pouts back at me, "I'm lonely and cold."

Baz's pout is much more impressive. His mouth was made for pouting. (And for kissing.)

I bend down and hold Paddington up to him. "Please, Baz," I say in what I imagine to be the bear's voice, "let me cuddle you."

"Simon."

I'm still laughing when I drop the bear and climb in over Baz.

"See? He just wants a little love."

Baz pulls the stuffed bear off him and plops him down on the bedside table. "My deepest apologies to Paddington, but I haven't any love to spare."

"You haven't?" I ask, sliding down under the duvet, and tucking my feet in between Baz's legs.

He shakes his head. "Not a single drop."

I move to his side and his arms come around me, my wings reaching up above us. It's a good thing the bed is so massive, or else they'd probably be hitting against it. (Baz's bed is covered in wings, from the gargoyles. It's kind of funny.)

"Poor Paddington."

"Poor Paddington, indeed," he says.

I bring my wings down over us, like an extra blanket. Baz likes it and my wings are warmer than the rest of me. Which I don't really understand, since I didn't think dragons were warm blooded. (I mean, I guess they do breathe fire.)

"Goodnight, Baz," I mumble into his chest.

"Goodnight, love," he whispers back.

"Goodnight, Paddington."

Baz sighs and his breath tickles over my scalp. "Goodnight," he says, in his Paddington voice.

I knew he had one. He can't keep anything from me.


	12. Day 12: Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You should fly more…We could go to the country. There's still my family estate."

**BAZ**

The first sight that greets me when I wake up on day three is something that closely resembles the inside of my eyelids when I've closed my eyes against the sun. Bright and red and warm and fuzzy.

I've not been good with enclosed spaces since the coffin, but for reasons I don't think require all that much examination, I've never had a problem being practically smothered by Simon's leathery red wings, spikes and all.

They're beautiful in a way. The same way everything about Snow is beautiful. I still don't know how he feels about them, but he's decided to live with them, rather than have them removed, which must mean that he's accepted them, or wants to.

I know Simon lost all his magic, but he's still magickal. The wings and the tail are all the proof of that he should need. He made them, this gorgeous disaster of a mage who could barely ever find his way to the end of an actual spell, with nothing more than sheer force of will. (And a hell of a lot of magic.)

I never truly understood what it was like for him, until that night in our room at Watford, sitting on my bed (even though I had told him that he wasn't allowed to sit on my bed), holding hands, sharing magic. Because that's just the sort of thing that Simon could do, like there was nothing more to it for him than breathing.

I don't know if there's anything we can do that will ever bring us closer than we were that moment, the two of us completely open to each other, surrounded by starlight.

Simon gave me the world, gave me stars, gave me infinity in my chest pocket without even stopping to question whether it was right to share those things with me. Because that's just the sort of person that Simon is.

The first time he gave himself wings, they were deformed. Penelope was there for that, not me. She **_Nonsense_** d them into oblivion and they disintegrated then and there. But the second time Simon gave himself wings, they were perfect and nothing Bunce or her parents did could make them go away. Only Simon's will could do that.

I've long wondered about the choice of dragon wings after that first time, when he went the more traditional route with feathers. Wondered if it had something to do with that dragon on the lawn that we fought together. Fought off with shared magic. Wondered if that day holds as much significance for Simon as it does for me.

His wings and tail are made of magic, but they didn't disappear with the rest of Simon's magic when he gave it all away. I still don't know what that means. I can't help wondering, though. Wondering if they're more than we can understand. If Simon isn't so much a dead spot as he is an empty mage with a storage system. Is there still enough magic in his dragon parts that he could find a way to draw from it? Is it still a matter of his will to control them? Deep down, maybe he still needs them. Maybe he can't let them go the way he did before, even when he thought he hated them. Maybe he's still trying to find his freedom. Maybe he's holding onto them because they're all he has left of what he was before. Or maybe they really are a part of him.

"Mmrhh," Simon moans into my shoulder. I think he's still asleep, which makes me wonder what kind of dream he's having (and if I'm starring in it), when his tail winds itself around my wrist and I feel my cheeks try to blush because I've been stroking my fingers up and down one of his wing joints without even realising. "Feels good," he mumbles sleepily, eyes still closed and a half-drunk smile on his face.

Crowley, no one should be allowed to be that appallingly adorable first thing in the morning. He's so warm and I'm completely surrounded by him and his scent. I can practically taste him on my tongue.

I need to hunt, but I don't want to leave my Simon cocoon.

I still can't believe I'm lucky enough to be with him like this. To share these moments with him.

It's miracle in itself we've managed to live this long (if you don't count the vampire thing), but that we survived to get here, to this place, together, is almost too much to believe.

I pull on his tail and he lets out a startled harrumph of protest.

" _Baz_ ," he says and I feel his face grow hot against my shoulder as he blushes. It makes his smell so much richer.

I forgot how wound up Simon gets about his tail. He must think I'm propositioning him. Which is a very good idea, except for the fact that I am far too thirsty to tumble around in bed with a delectably half-naked bag of blood.

I think Snow would like that, if I drank from him, instead. But I'm not ready to deal with all of that. Especially not while we're here dealing with everything else. We're still too fragile to be playing with fire like that. And that's exactly what it would be like, because if I ever do get to taste his blood, I will incinerate on the spot.

That train of thought is absolutely not helping.

"Snow," I nudge him with my arm, trying to wedge myself out from underneath his body and inside his wings. I feel a bit like a pearl in an oyster some mornings. (I am not complaining.)

He doesn't seem to catch on, and tries to move closer, sliding his toes up the inside of my calf.

"Snow!" I say more firmly, this time shoving him away. "I need to hunt."

"Stay," He pouts up at me, eyes full of mischief.

"I can't."

He gives me the most idiotic grin I've ever seen. I think he means for it to be seductive but he's too sleep-worn and tousled and guileless to pull it off. "Baz…"

"No."

His face falls and his pout is in earnest this time. "Why not?"

"I can't."

He sighs, but he lifts his wings and his body off of me.

I take a peek out the window. It's a startlingly clear morning. The kind of winter morning that will probably pierce me right through, but it's perfect for Simon.

"Get dressed," I tell him, "I want you to come with me."

He's up instantly, looking like I've just told him I'm going to slather myself in butter and let him lick it off. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

He's so delighted, he's practically bouncing. "Baz! This is going to be wicked!"

I roll my eyes. "You are an absolute nightmare."

"So you've told me."

As much as I hate to dampen his mood, I can't let him labour under his misapprehension too long without this whole exercise in negotiating boundaries doing more harm than good. "I know you feel better if you can be with me," I tell him. "And you know I feel better if you're not."

He looks confused now.

"But the sky is crystal clear and I did promise to take you flying," I go on. "So, I hunt, you fly, and you can keep an eye on me and make sure nothing tries to drain me before I drain it. Deal?"

He's cautious. "You're not going to go running off with your vampire super speed and ditch me, are you?"

"No. I came out here to spend time with you. I'm not trying to get away from you, Snow."

"Okay," he says after a long pause. "With one condition."

"What's the condition?"

"You come flying with me."

"Simon—"

"Come on, Baz." He walks around the bed and grabs my arm. "Please. You promised to take me flying. I don't think it counts unless you're there."

I sigh. Why am I so weak for this man? "One circuit around the property and then I have to hunt, Simon."

The wanker winks at me. "Don't worry about it. We'll find you a good spot with a nice juicy deer or something. I know it's harder for you when you can't cast for one."

I should be more disturbed that Simon isn't more disturbed about the blood drinking, but I just can't be bothered. He really does want to be included in this part of my life; he's been unbelievably supportive for someone who used to walk around wearing a cross because he was convinced I was going to attack him in his sleep. I should do a better job of being more supportive of him.

"All right, Snow."

He's beaming at me and it's like staring directly into the sun. It hurts to look at him, but it's the best kind of pain.

If I thought it was cold on the ground, I was definitely not prepared for the abrupt drop in temperature the moment we are airborne.

Fuck me, I'm going to die a Baz-cicle. I'm going to literally freeze my bollocks off.

I cling to Simon with all the very considerable and inhuman strength I have, but I can't get close enough to him to get warmer, not as long as he's using his wings to fly, and the wind is whipping against me like this.

"Simon!" I scream, trying to be heard over the sound of the wind.

"Baz!" He shouts back, voice full of excitement. He's grinning and kind of laughing. "Baz, this is amazing!"

My complaint dies in my mouth, because it is amazing.

Simon is happy. He's in his element up here in a way he just can't be on the ground anymore. His magic once rooted him to the centre of the earth, but his wings give him the sky.

His cheeks are pink and his eyes are squinting and watery and his hair is being tossed about in every direction at once. He's beautiful like this and I never want him to put me down.

I'll die of hypothermia, clinging to Snow. It's sort of poetic.

I'll die with the sound of his laughter in my ears, the pressure of his large hands holding me to him, the glorious and impossible sight of his wings spread out around us, bearing us off on an updraft to Crowley knows where.

It doesn't matter. As long as we're going there together.


	13. Day 13: Below the Surface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard goes exploring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no point to this chapter except that I had a stupid idea for today's prompt and had to write it. XD

**SHEPARD**

I've got the house to myself. Finally.

Okay, not really.

Penelope's on the phone with her dad talking about atmospheric readings. Agatha is doing some kind of mask and FaceTiming with Ginger. Lucy is curled up next to her, asleep. Simon is flying. Baz is hunting.

Which means I'm free to explore.

When I asked Baz before if there were any other creatures living in the manor he just rolled his eyes, which. Fine.

I can find out for myself. There's still so much of this place I haven't seen yet, even after the tour and my search of the upstairs on the first day.

I wanted to go for a walk in the woods yesterday, to see if there was anything interesting living out there, but Penelope needed my help to bring some holiday cheer to the place, and I couldn't just leave her high and dry.

She likes to pretend she doesn't really need anyone, ever, but I think she secretly likes to have someone to take charge now and then and give her a break to just have fun for a change. (Penelope's not the best about having fun.) (I've been working on it.)

I've seen the kitchen and the dining room and the library and the study and the parlor. Walking through this house is like playing Clue. (They call it Clue _do_ on this side of the pond, because they like to be difficult.) (That was a whole thing. Do not get me started.)

I keep thinking Colonel Mustard's going to pop up out of nowhere and brain me with a lead pipe.

I'm coming up on the staircase, which is lined with sculptures of naked women holding up light fixtures and I wonder which one of Baz's horny relatives was responsible for that design choice.

I've already been through all of the bedrooms on the second floor. I haven't found the craft room, yet, but I'm hoping for something a little more exciting than a stockpile of forgotten construction paper. An old place like this has to have a few skeletons hiding in the closet. (It did have at least one vampire hiding in the closet.) Having met Baz's family, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if there were actual skeletons just lying around. (According to Simon, Baz used to drink rats and chill with human skulls outside his mom's tomb when they were in school. So that's a thing.)

I take the stairs two at a time and then do a quick survey when I get to the top landing. I thought I spotted another staircase at the end of the hallway last night that I'd like to investigate in the light of day.

That's when something catches my eye and I move to get a closer look.

There's a painting I don't remember seeing before mounted on the fancy wallpaper, facing out toward the stairwell. It's a portrait of one of the Pitches who does not look happy about her final resting place. I walk over to get a closer look, taking another cautious glance up and down the hallway.

Running along the side of the frame is a black-tasselled cord.

I mean, what else am I supposed to do?

I reach out and give it a good hard tug.

"Shepard!" I hear Penelope calling for me. I'm following the sound of her voice, which is coming from somehere above me, like I'm under a stage, trying to find the mark for the right trapdoor to take me up.

"Where are you? We're about to have lunch."

 _Oh, great_ , I think. _Mages trying to prepare edible food without using magic. No wonder they're missing me._

I get to the other side of the room and finally find what I'm looking for: a small hatch with a crank and a pulley system. I think it's a kind of old dumbwaiter, which definitely beats taking the stairs.

I hop on and crank myself up to the first floor level, then slide open the wall panel that blocks my exit into the kitchen.

Penelope looks over at the movement and shrieks, dropping a mug full of tea, which fortunately does not break.

"Stevie Nicks and Gracie Slick! What are you doing?" She shouts at me.

I can barely contain the smile on my face. "I think I found a dungeon. You guys have to come and see it!"

"What?" Simon immediately rounds on Baz. "This place really does have a dungeon?"

Baz is deadpan as always. "Why so interested, Snow? Hoping for a private tour?"

Agatha snorts into her tea and Simon goes beet red.

Penny shoves the handle of a mop into my chest. "Clean this up and stop running off on your own and scaring me half to death."

"Were you worried about me?"

"I'm worried about me. You nearly gave me a heart attack. And you made me spill my tea."

"Love you, too, Pen."

She just grumbles back at me and stalks away.


	14. Day 14: Constellations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon tries to wrap Baz's gifts without Baz finding out. What could go wrong?

**SIMON**

I should have wrapped Baz's gifts before we left London, but I've been feeling a little funny about them. Like, I don't know how he'll react.

It's just. It's our anniversary and things have been bad for a long time. And I want things to be good. I want to _try_ this year. But now I just feel kind of stupid.

I know I could have asked Pen, even Shepard probably would have been only too happy to help. (Shepard is always only too happy to help.) (I definitely couldn't ask Agatha. I never got her anything when we were dating.—No, that's not true. I got her in trouble.)

It just feels too personal. I've never told Penny about that night Baz took us to the stars. Or brought them down. Or whatever it was he did. We did. Together.

I think part of the reason I've been putting off the gift wrapping is because then I'd have to see the things I got for him. And it all made so much sense to me when I did it, but now. Well. Looking at them now, I feel silly. Baz will never go for this. He'll think I'm mental and break up with me.

I put the paper I'm using down (I got it out of the craft room stash) and drop my head into my hands, trying to take a deep breath.

I've worked with my therapist on this. The bad thoughts and the worse feelings.

I know Baz isn't really going to break up with me over some stupid Christmas gifts (even if they are really stupid), but I can't stop the thought from popping into my head every time something goes wrong.

I guess this is just a fear that I have to live with. I've had a lot of bad things chasing me in my life, but this one feels the scariest.

I probably need to talk to Baz about it. I mean, I have. A bit. But not lately. I guess bringing it up right before our anniversary is probably shit timing. And probably also right after.

I probably need to talk to my therapist, too. Not about this. Well, maybe about this. But I mean, about the wraiths. I haven't checked in since we got to Hampshire. It's only been a few days, and we didn't really make firm plans or anything, so she's probably not worried I'm going to ghost her again. I think she'd have called me or something if she was worried. But I think she still expects me to get in touch, let her know how the catharsis is progressing, that sort of thing.

It's been nice, though, being here, with Baz. I think we were both a lot more terrified to come back here than we told each other. It's weird how so much can be tied into a place like this. All this good and bad. I hope it's more good than bad now.

Baz seems to be doing okay with it all. He's been teasing me and touching me, and I've been letting him, so that's good.

I really want to make things work, and I need to make this work. This trip. This stupid, stupid gift.

I'm just folding a piece of fancy glitter paper over the edge of one of the books when I hear a knock at the door and practically jump out of my skin.

Baz is supposed to be in the library with Penny, which is why I'm doing this now. She talked to her dad again this morning and they came up with some new theories. He's going to go around with the rest of his team to check on the dead spots I made when I gave the Humdrum my magic, to see if they're filling in, too. Pen thinks because they're smaller and newer, they'll probably fill in faster. I'm trying to be helpful, but I'm also trying to be okay, and those two things don't always work together. Which is why I'm here and not in the library.

But everyone else should be.

"Who is it?" I call out, but instead of answering, whoever's outside just opens the door. I should have locked it.

I spin around on my arse and try to use my wings to block the small stack of gifts behind me as Baz steps into the room.

"I didn't tell you to come in, did I?" I ask.

He stops mid step to eye me with concern. "What's going on, Snow?"

"You knocked and I asked who was there and you're supposed to say who you are so I can tell you not to come in yet."

"Why? This is my room."

"Yeah, but. You're supposed to be in the library with Penny."

"I got cold so I came up to grab a jumper. Or a personal heater." He tries to smile at me as he says it (because he means me, I'm his personal heater), but his look is strained. "If I'm bothering you—"

I groan. "Christ, Baz. I'm trying to keep you from seeing your Christmas present, all right?"

That gets his attention. "What did you get me?"

"I'm not going to tell you, am I? I just said—"

"Are you hiding it behind your back?"

"Yes, so get your jumper and get going, will you? You're going to spoil the surprise."

"Maybe I want to."

"You're already spoiled enough."

"There, you see? It won't make any difference if you spoil me a little more."

"Baz, please."

He smiles wickedly and kneels down on the floor in front me. "What's behind your wings, Snow?"

"A secret," is all I tell him.

A secret that's probably going to make him laugh in my face because it's so awful. Or cry. Merlin, what if Baz cries? I couldn't handle that. I've had enough of making him cry. I don't want him to start weeping over a bad gift.

"You'll have to pardon my curiosity, Snow, but I can't remember you ever getting me a gift before."

Shit. I was sort of hoping he wouldn't bring that up.

"I know," my voice sounds weak and scratchy. "I told you. I'm a terrible boyfriend."

He scoots closer to me, placing his hands on my knees and trying to look into my eyes. "I thought we decided we were going to be better boyfriends."

"We did. That's kind of why I'm doing this."

"Sitting on the floor of my childhood bedroom and using your wings to try to keep me from seeing my Christmans presents because you forgot to wrap them before we left London?"

"No. I didn't forget. I just..." I scrub a hand over my face. "They're just awful, okay? They're awful and I didn't want to actually have to give them to you, but now we're here and I'm going to have to give you something because you're being fucking wonderful, aren't you? And you're going to give me something amazing and expensive and I'm going to feel shit."

 _And then you're going to break up with me_ , I don't say.

But I think he hears it anyway. (That can't even be blamed on the vampire thing. That's just Baz.)

"Simon," he says, moving one of his hands up to touch my chin. He tips it up so I'm looking him in the eyes now. "This isn't some kind of test you have to pass. You do know that, right?"

I swallow. His eyes immediately drop to follow the movement of my Adam's apple. (They always do that.) (Baz is a bit obsessed with my throat, but I suppose that comes with the territory.)

"Yeah," I say. "But I still want to."

He chuckles softly. "Would it make you feel better if we took some of the suspense out of the equation?"

I grab his hand away from my face and shove him (gently) in the shoulder with my other hand. "I can't believe you!"

He's laughing now and falling into me, but I can't tell if he's falling because he's laughing, or if it's just another ploy to get around me. It's fine. It won't work. My wings are wider than his arms are long.

I wrap my arms around him to keep him from getting around me and laugh into his back.

"It was worth a try," he mumbles against my chest.

The thing is, he kind of has a point.

"Baz?"

"Simon?"

"Do you want to open them now?"

"Are they wrapped?"

"Well. No. You sort of interrupted before I could finish. Or start."

He laughs again. "Then I guess I can't open them, can I?"

"You're such a git."

"I'm your git."

"You're still a git."

He raises himself again and tries to be serious. "Yes, you may give me my gifts early."

I shake my head, but I'm still smiling. The problem is that he knows exactly how much he can get away with. And he always takes a little more every time.

"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."

With a deep breath, I tuck my wings and scoot to the side, so I can reach the gifts behind me. Three books and an envelope.

"Well, books are a pretty safe bet for me, Snow, so you've got that in your favour."

I hand him the one on the bottom of the stack. It's a book on constellations and astrology. I'm not entirely sure that Baz likes astrology, but he did well in the class. (I suppose he did well in every class. But he kept taking the class, so I guess he got something out of it.)

"This is a very nice book, Simon."

I can't tell from his tone if he's being sincere or diplomatic.

"That's not all," I tell him. "There's two more."

"I can see that," he says.

"Be nice," I nudge him with my wing. "I am trying."

"I know, love. And I appreciate that you are."

I'm sort of blushing when I give him the next one.

"What is this?" He asks, cracking it open and taking a quick glance through the pages.

"It's kind of a history book. About _Twinkle, twinkle, litte star_. Did you know it's French?"

He's smiling. "I did. It's a folk melody."

My face falls. "Crap. You know all this already. Of course you do."

"Simon. Did you get me a book on the musical and etymological origins of a nursery rhyme?"

"Only because, you know." I shrug. "Because of that day, in our room. It's stupid, isn't it?"

He leans toward me, eyes sparkling. "No, love," he says, and gives my cheek a kiss. "It's perfect."

"It's just, you like this sort of thing."

"Simon, I already told you it was perfect. You don't have to convince me."

I'm still blushing, but it's worse now, and I'm not sure if it's because he kissed me, or because he called me love, or because of that look in his eyes, but I guess it doesn't really matter, because I'm totally good with all of it.

"You could have just given me this, you know," he says. "You didn't have to get me a whole stack of books."

"But they all go together."

He tilts his head to the side, raising his eyebrow. Crowley, I never thought I'd want to kiss an eyebrow (maybe shave it off), but I do. "Do they?" He asks, and his voice has kind of gone liquidy.

I swallow again. "Uh, yeah. They do."

"Then better give me the rest."

I do. I hand him the third book first. It's thinner than the others, and shaped more like a notebook. "It's a songbook," I tell him, like he can't figure that out for himself. "Did you know that Mozart wrote twelve different versions of the same song?"

He's laughing. "Mozart did not write _Twinkle, twinkle, little star_ , Simon."

"You know what I mean."

"He composed twelve variations for solo piano on the French folk melody _Ah! Vous dirai-je, maman_."

"Sure. Anyway, this is for the violin. For you to play."

He's still laughing, and I'm trying to figure out what's so funny, but then he kisses me again, on the lips this time, so I figure maybe I'm still doing okay.

"What's in the envelope?"

I take another deep breath, because this is the one that makes me the most nervous. I think Baz can tell, because my heart is racing. He rubs his hand across my back, between my wings. (It's my favourite spot.)

I can't meet his eyes when I hand it to him.

He opens the envelope carefully. It's sealed and he's trying not to tear it. I wouldn't be that careful, but that's how we're different. He takes care and I just charge ahead.

When he sees what's inside, he goes very still and very quiet and I'm terrified for the span of way too many heartbeats to be healthy. I start to wonder if I'm having a heart attack, or if I'm going to if this goes on much longer.

"Sorry," I say, because I just can't stay quiet any longer. "I should have put it in a frame, or something, shouldn't I? I didn't even think about it. Do you hate it? Is it bad? Baz, please say something or I'm going to jump out of my skin."

I can say that kind of thing to him, now. And my therapist was right. It's a lot better to let it out than keep it all inside.

When he finally looks up at me, his eyes are wet and his face is full of restrained emotion.

 _Jesus Christ_ , I think. It's so bad, he's crying, and I'm swearing like a Normal.

Baz puts the envelope and the certificate down on the floor, gently, and then he throws his arms around me. I sit there in shock for several moments, then cautiously bring my hands up to his back and return the hug. I don't understand what's happening right now, but I think we're okay if Baz is hugging me. I'm a little worried he may be crying, though.

I think he finally gets himself together enough to talk when he pulls away, wiping at his eyes. He's smiling. That's good. "You absolute nightmare. I can't believe you. Did you really give me the fucking stars?"

"Well, just one. I could really only afford the one."

(I had to tap into my leprechaun gold for all of this, but I don't tell him that.)

He leans in and very gently, presses his lips to my forehead. "I love you," he whispers against my skin.

I close my eyes and let his words soak into me. I don't say it back, because most days it's still too hard to get the words out of my throat. But he knows. And I've been trying to show him in every way I can.

That's what we do now. We give each other love. And it's better than magic.


	15. Day 15: Hurt/Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agatha and Lucy go for a walk that doesn't end quite the way they planned.

**AGATHA**

I've just lost sight of Lucy around the trunk of a large tree when I hear an animal whine that I'm pretty sure isn't coming from my dog.

I didn't come out here to make friends with whatever weird flora and fauna Baz has living in his creepy private forest. I feel a bit like I'm back at Watford, and one of the wood sprites or that dryad with the glowing eyes is going to pop up and start asking me unsettling questions.

I stifle a shudder, which I'm fully prepared to blame on the arctic temperatures of the wind whipping through my coat. "Lucy! Please don't wander off. I don't want you getting attacked."

I find her on the other side of the tree, behind a ring of mushrooms growing out of its trunk. She's caught a scent on the ground. I let her off her lead earlier, to explore, because she never wanders far, but I'm pulling it out of my pocket to reattach it to her collar, because she's making me a bit anxious, when she takes off.

"Lucy! No! Lucy! Come back!"

I groan, taking off after her, which is not easily accomplished in wellies. The ground is still damp, and there are decaying leaves all over making my nonexistent path slippery.

I'm so focussed on keeping up and not falling over myself that I don't even realise Lucy's stopped running until I nearly topple right over her. I manage to stop my forward momentum and right myself (thank you, years of ballet) before killing both myself and my dog.

"Lucy, what in Morgana's name..."

But I trail off when I see that she's panting and holding one of her paws off the ground.

"Oh, no, Luce," I kneel next to her and reach for her paw. It's bleeding from the pad. She must have cut it on something while she was running.

It's moments like this when I need my wand. Also, magic to cast with it.

Lucy whimpers as I poke around, trying to make sure I'm not missing anything.

I keep her paw steady with one hand and use the other to scratch behind one of her ears.

I've no notion where the nearest veterinary clinic may be. I feel like we're cut off from the rest of the world out here. Also, I'm planning to become a vet myself someday, and I don't think there's anything too serious that's wrong with her.

I make a decision and pull out my phone, calling the first number that shows up in my recents, which is, of course, Penelope, who can't ever be bothered to send a text.

"Agatha!" It's Shepard who answers. I'm not sure if that's better or worse than Penny. Neither one of them ever seems to know when to shut up. "I've got you on speaker. Everyone say hi."

Nobody does.

"Enjoying your walk?" He asks, not allowing their attitudes to sway his enthusiasm.

"Actually, no. I think Lucy cut her paw."

"Oh, no. Is she okay?" Shepard asks. "We can send Simon to pick her up and fly her back. Is she okay with flying? I guess Baz could carr—no, you know what, I think flying is—"

"I can carry her just fine. What I need is—"

"If she's hurt, we should call someone, shouldn't we?" Simon asks. I guess Shepard really did put me on speaker. Well, that will make this whole process go so much faster now that the entire gang gets to chime in. "Baz, do you have a vet in the area?"

"No," was Baz's terse response. At least one of them could be brief.

"I have a medical kit in my room," I soldier on.

"You do?" Shepard asks. "Look at you, so prepared."

Dad had insisted on giving it to me as one of my presents when I told my parents I was going to be spending the hols in a dead spot. They haven't quite given up the idea of me as some sort of danger prone damsel, but at least he still has the confidence in me to administer first aid.

"I need someone to bring it to me. I'm going to stay here with Lucy. I want to make sure she's not going to be hurt if I pick her up."

"On it!" Shepard says, and disconnects the call.

I look down at Lucy, who seems to be remaining calm, which is a good sign. "This is why texting was invented."

I'm sitting down on the freezing, damp ground when Shepard appears. Lucy has crawled into my lap and I'm feeling a bit silly about making us both stay out here and suffer instead of just taking her inside.

(Would it be wrong if I said there was a small part of me that may actually be a little scared to bring my bleeding dog into a house with a vampire who drinks animal blood? I mean, I don't think Lucy would really be in any actual danger. But. It's best to be safe.)

Shepard must have been running the whole way because he's out of breath when he gets over to us. Lucy perks up and starts barking softly. They're friendly barks. Lucy likes Shepard. (She's not very fond of Penelope and Baz, after they possessed and abducted her and then left her in the snow to die.) (Also, she's a bit frightened of Simon's wings, but she seems to like his tail. I've seen him wag it in an effort to bond with her.)

"I've got your bag," Shepard says, holding it out for me. It's pink leather and it's stamped with my initials. (It's a good thing I want to specialise in horses. I can't imagine showing up to a dairy with a leather case.)

I take the bag from him. "Thanks. I'll be back in a lit—"

Shepard crouches down beside me.

I decide to take the path of least resistance and just let him be. I'm getting out a pair of sterile gloves to replace the wooly knitted ones I've got on when Shepard starts in on one of his stories.

"Do you want to hear about the time I got to help deliver a centaur foal?"

I'm getting out some gauze and disinfectant and his question makes me pause. "What?"

"Have you ever seen a newborn centaur?"

"No, and I can hardly believe you have."

"I got to see it stretch its spindly legs and take its first wobbly steps. I felt like a proud parent, just being there for that."

I'm still staring at Shepard when something soft nudges against my hand. I look down, and it's Lucy, licking the back of my glove.

"You're going to be a horse vet, right?" Shepard asks.

I nod. He and I haven't really talked about it. I'm still reserving judgement on Shepard. He seems nice enough, but I just can't understand why he's so fascinated with magic.

"Aw, I wish I had been able to take some photos, I could have shown you. Of course, it can't possibly be the same as actually being there in person to experience it all as it happens."

I've gotten Lucy all cleaned up now and she doesn't seem to be bothered by her paw anymore, so I decide we're okay to just take her back to the house and let her rest. As soon as I take off my gloves, she's nuzzling into my palm. She's not usually this affectionate and I think she's trying to let me know that she's okay.

"You're really good with animals." Shepard says.

"Yes, well, that's because I like them better than people."

He laughs and I frown. I don't know why I just told him that. I didn't think I was letting Shepard get to me the way he has to everybody else.

"Have you ever thought about going into magickal veterinary medicine?"

"I...I don't think that's a thing."

"I'm sure it is. And if it's not, it should be. You could work with centaurs instead of horses. Pegasus...es. Pega... _si_? Unicorns! I've known a lot of magickal creatures who could have used someone like you around. Your dad's a magickal doctor, right? Simon's got a magickal psychologist. Why can't you be a magickal vet?"

"I'll...give it some thought."

He smiles at me like I've just made his day and he hasn't gone out of his way to give me unsolicited life advice that might have actually changed my life.

 _This is how it happens_ , I think. _This is how you win over Penelope Bunce and Basilton Pitch._ Maybe this is also how you win over Agatha Wellbelove.

I tuck everything back into my kit bag, hand it over to Shepard, pick Lucy up, and say, "tell me about the centaur foal."


	16. Day 16: Meme/Crack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz has a weird dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the big ideas I had before I conceived of the rest of this fic. There was some nostalgic reminiscing about the Gargoyles TV series in the discord one day and this is where my mind immediately went at the thought of gargoyles. So, have some dream sequence crack!

**BAZ**

I'm lying in bed, my pillow propped against the carved wooden headboard, which would be much more comfortable, probably, if it didn't feature a dozen gargoyles, one of which has its life size head jutting forward, eyes bulging, and mouth open, tongue extended in grotesque rictus. (Last night, I caught Simon making faces back at the gargoyle.) 

I can't answer for my ancestors' taste in furniture. I can't answer for my ancestors' taste in many things (fairies being one of them), but I'm still stuck with this bed. It's not like I can swap it out for something more streamlined and comfortable, because this house is part of the National Trust and the bed is mounted to the wall.

I've got one of my new books propped open on my legs, but I can't really make out any of the words on the page.

Simon finishes up in the bathroom and switches out the light, closing the door and walking toward the bed. (I don't remember having an en suite here.)

He's lovely. (He always is.)

He still takes his showers at night, and his skin is flushed and rosy, from his forehead, all the way down his broad, bare chest to his...

"What are you wearing, Snow?"

My voice sounds weird. Why does my voice sound weird?

He looks down at himself. I'm looking, too. I can't tell what he's wearing. It...doesn't look like anything. His legs are much larger than I remember them being, wider and—when did Simon get hooves?

I feel like I would have noticed. I knew about the tail and the wings.

As I'm looking at him, I'm realising he's not really rosy, he's just red.

All over. And I think he's got horns.

"Simon, are you feeling okay?"

Is this because the magic's come back? Is he using the magic to transform himself like he did before? I thought he would have gone full dragon, but instead he's going full Lucifer.

Huh.

Didn't see that coming.

Is this because I tease him about the devil's tail? (I like the tail.) (A lot.)

"Right as rain, Baz," he says, but his voice is too deep. "Or should it be snow?"

"Snow," I start, but the rest of my words get lost in my mouth. I don't remember what I was going to say.

"Hey!" Snow suddenly shouts, and I think he's yelling at me at first. He's grimacing and he has his fists planted on his hips, legs wide apart. (Are those distal knee joints?)

"Hey, yourself," something says.

I jump, because I don't know whose voice it was.

"You stay away from my boyfriend!" Simon shouts, nearly fuming. I have actually seen him angry enough to literally fume before, and I'd much rather not have a return to those days.

I'm looking around, and that's when I notice the movement.

It's happening all around me. Has it been happening all this time and I just didn't know?  
The gargoyles, they're moving. All of them, flapping their wings and shifting around and lashing their tails. They sort of look like Simon.

Is...is Simon a _gargoyle_?

The gargoyles are all moaning and clicking, like the wraiths, and their eyes are glowing.

The big one, right next to my head, looks like it's speaking, but it's tongue is still sticking out of its mouth. "Who are you?" It asks.

And it's the voice from before. It's not talking to me, it's talking to Simon.

"I'm your king!" Simon says to it, and then all of the gargoyles burst off the bed and start flying around him. They sound like flibbertigibetts and I'm afraid they're going to hurt Simon.

Did the Humdrum send them? No, the Humdrum's gone. He can't keep attacking us.

I look over again, and the face in the headboard is gone, vanished.

I sit up and try to look around the room, but there's no sign of it anywhere.

"I'm their king now," Simon says, and he must be speaking to me.

The gargoyles have stopped swarming and they're perching on Simon's body, like he's bloody Notre Dame. (I have compared him to Quasimodo in the past, but this wasn't what I meant.)

"Simon—" I start, and then suddenly, I'm standing in front of him and he's smiling at me.

"Hey, Baz."

Something must be very deeply wrong with me, because even now, in this form, I can't help thinking how gorgeous he is. (Even with horns.)

"We're going to be friends now," he tells me.

"What?"

"The gargoyles, Baz. They're my friends. They've been waiting for me to wake them up."

I think about Simon befriending the gargoyles from my childhood bed. A bed I've spent countless nights in, sleepless, tossing and turning, thinking about him and my hopeless love for him. Lying there, thinking about him, thinking about—

"No, Simon!" I try to shout, but my voice doesn't carry and the gargoyles start chattering all at once.

I can't understand them, but I know. I know they're telling him everything they've witnessed in this room. Everything they've seen me do and heard me say.

"Baz," Simon says, and he's laughing. He's laughing at me.

Simon knows. _He knows._

"Baz."

_"Baz!"_

I jerk awake. "What?"

Simon laughs softly. "Hey, you fell asleep. You were thrashing about and moaning. It was kind of hot."

He's smiling down at me sweetly, knelt next to me on the bed, curls wet and dark from his shower. (No horns.) (I'm not disappointed by that, am I?)

I look down. I've got the book he gave me, the one about astrology open on my chest. Why had I decided to read this one? I don't remember. I'm still a bit foggy.

I reach over to place the book on the bedside table when I notice Paddington Bear looking back at me. After the dream I just had, I don't want anymore witnesses. I turn him around to face the wall. I'll put him back in the wardrobe later. When I'm not too cold to climb back out of bed.

Simon's laughing again. "What'd you do that for?" He asks. "Plotting something nefarious?"

"Indeed," I tell him.

He smiles back. "Tell me all about it."


	17. Day 17: Blanket Fort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz wakes up alone and cold. Drastic times call for drastic measures.

**BAZ**

I can tell the temperature has dropped overnight as soon as I wake up.

Part of the reason is that Simon isn't in bed. Which means that my (human) teeth are practically chattering. I've no body heat of my own to have built up, and I've been sleeping with fewer blankets since Simon and I started sharing a bed. He's so warm, he has no need of them, and neither do I. (It's wonderful.)

I'm thrown back to our days at Watford, waking up with the window open and snow flying in. Because my Snow was burning up with magic.

I sit up and look around. The window is firmly shut, but there is a thick layer of frost crystals spreading across the leaded glass panes.

I'm glad that I finally got back to a nighttime feeding schedule, because it would be a bear to go out there now looking for a meal. (I know Simon would prefer I just roll over when I'm thirsty, but…well. It's not as if he's here anyway.)

"Simon?" I don't know why I'm calling for him. He's not in the room. Even if he were hiding, I'd hear and smell him. And he's not going to hear me from outside the room unless I raise my voice. And I don't know what time it is. I don't want to wake up everyone else. I'd still be asleep myself if I weren't in serious danger of freezing to death. So to speak.

The house has central heating, but it's shit because it's a draughty old Victorian with its own fucking dungeon.

I'd make a fire, but I don't actually know how to do it without conjuring a flame. (The problem with coming from two long lines of fire magicians is that none of them ever knew to teach me.) (Not that it was a problem until very recently.)

There's a thick, faux fur-lined fleece throw blanket on the sofa being completely wasted. I slip out of bed to grab it, promptly regretting my decision the moment my feet touch the hardwood and jump back into bed. I should be wearing three pairs of fuzzy socks, but Simon warms my feet perfectly. Damn him.

I crawl as deeply under the sheet and duvet as I can, rolling up the sides and the bottom to try to make myself into some form of blanket burrito (dignity stands no chance in the face of comfort), then drape the fuzzy blanket on top. The added weight and thickness helps somewhat, but I still lack the necessary internal warmth to heat anything past room temperature, which I would classify as "frozen tundra".

Still grumbling, I slide down and cover my head and arms, pulling myself into the fetal position.

I would probably be better off just getting up and taking a very long, very hot shower, but that would require me to get out of bed again, walk to the bathroom, and get undressed. All of which sounds bloody horrific.

Just as I'm beginning a _be warm, be one with the blankets, Basilton_ mantra, I hear the bedroom door creak open, because there is nothing about this house that doesn't scream "haunted mansion".

Two footfalls into the room. A pause. A laugh. The door closing.

"Baz, what are you playing at?"

"I'm fucking freezing."

"Let me in, then."

"No."

"No?"

"No. You abandoned me in my time of need."

"I was just having a piss."

"It's too late. I've built myself an impenetrable fortress."

"I don't think fortresses are much of a challenge against dragons."

"You're not a dragon."

" _Yet_. I'm just a cute widdle kitten. But even baby dragons can storm fortresses."

"No one is storming my fortress."

Another laugh, this one louder and more braying. "Only you would make blanket forts dirty."

"It's part of my charm."

"It is."

Silence, then a grunt and something very large and very heavy lands directly on top of my blanket pile.

"Crowley! What are you doing?"

He settles himself more comfortably, spooning around me like an actual dragon guarding treasure. (I do my best not to let that make me soft.) (I am a fearsome hunter of the night. I will not be reduced to mush over a spooning.) I feel his tail tuck in around my legs, where it usually winds itself through them, and his wings settle over top as his arms pull him tightly against me.

"You said I couldn't storm your fortress," Simon explains. "So, I'm keeping it warm."

"You are an absolute nightmare."

"I'm your dream come true."

I sigh. "Don't get too smug."

I can just _feel_ that smugness radiating off him. Like glorious, delicious waves of fatty, buttery heat, washing me out to a sleepy sea.

Just before I sink down, I hear him mumble something that sounds like, "love you, too, Baz."

I smile and drift off.


	18. Day 18: Side Ships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penelope, Shepard, Agatha, and Lucy drive around Hampshire to take readings on the magickal atmosphere.

**PENELOPE**

We're driving the country lanes today.

I've been struggling to get everyone else to stay on task.

All right, fine, I did take some time out for holiday crafts, but honestly, the mood was almost as dour as the décor. It's just that I know we're closer than we've ever been before at figuring out the key to the dead spots, and I can't just let that go because we're a few days away from Christmas.

I've got a map where I've marked out a route across Hampshire.

I want to collect more data, find out if there are other places in the county where the magic is coming back.

Shepard volunteered to drive me, but I'm still hesitant to get into a car with him after the Roundabout Incident. He still claims it wasn't his fault. ("Why do your roads have those things in them anyway? What are they contributing to traffic safety? This didn't have anything to do with me being on the wrong side of the road! Which, by the way, is the right side. Get it? Right side?") But I feel much safer with someone less inclined to wander into an obvious death trap of their own volition—which is saying something about Shepard when that person is Agatha.

She's not enthusiastic about the assignment, either, but I don't think any of us can stomach being around Simon and Baz any longer. I'm happy that they're doing better, but it's a bit hard to focus on research when Simon is sitting in Baz's lap in the middle of the library. When I asked if that was really necessary, Simon's response was: "My wings don't fit in the chair." Baz's response was: "Fuck off, Bunce."

Honestly. I think it's a conspiracy. (I've clearly been spending too much time around Shepard.)

I would think that Simon of all people would be the one most invested in the returning magic, but he's barely involved. He was the one who wanted to come out here with me in the first place, help out in any way that he could, see if there were any links between him and the geographical dead spots.

And now that there's been a huge development in our research? The biggest news since the discovery of the Chosen One himself? It's like he can't be far enough away from it.

That's probably something I should be worried about. If he's avoiding the issue, then it must be really bothering him. But it doesn't seem like it is. The past couple of days, he's looked almost happy. Simon isn't that good of an actor. And he's definitely never been good about hiding his depression. So the change in his outlook must be real, I just don't know what it means.

I've decided to let Baz deal with it. I haven't locked them in a broom cupboard yet. But they'll have the whole house to themselves all day. If that's not enough for them to talk, then I can't do anything for them.

"I don't know what you think it's going to accomplish," Agatha says.

"I told you, I want to check the atmospheric saturation!"

She sighs. "With Simon and Baz. You left them alone in a big house to be completely undisturbed for several hours. What makes you think they're going to spend their time talking?"

"Sorry, Pen. I have to agree with Agatha. They're definitely not going to talk."

"Can _we_ not talk about this?" I ask.

"Where am I turning?" Agatha glances over to me. "You are the world's worst navigator."

"I could navigate," Shepard volunteers.

"You don't even know which side of the road to drive on," Agatha responds. "We're not trusting you with the map."

"I got you all the way across the Midwest."

"I wasn't there," Agatha reminds him.

"These aren't the backroads of Nebraska," I argue. "This is England."

Shepard looks pointedly out his side window. "So intimidating."

"Penelope!" Agatha practically shouts. "Where's the turning?"

"Oh, right," I say, trying to find my place on the map. "Um, left ahead."

"Ahead?" Agatha repeats. "What does 'ahead' mean, exactly?"

"At the next crossroads."

Agatha huffs, but she makes the turn and we head down a long, narrow road, barely wide enough for the Volvo.

Shepard's face is suddenly right next to mine and I squeak in surprise. "So very different from the deserted backroads of Nebraska," he says.

I ignore him. Then he moves his hands up around my seat and places them on my shoulders. "That's your map?"

"Yes?" I'm not sure where he's going with this.

"That whole area is a dead spot?"

"Was. This is the Pitch estate here," I tell him, pointing to where I've marked in the spot with purple marker.

"Baz's family owns all of that?"

"Did you miss the part about him being rich?"

"No, but."

"I told you that his house is part of the National Trust."

"That means nothing to me," Shepard says. "I assume it's fancy?"

I ignore him. That doesn't really work with Shepard. He leans even farther over my seat back and rests his cheek against mine. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"Yes," I say, refusing to give in beyond that.

"Oh, come on, Pen. You've got to be a little bit nostalgic."

"I've never been nostalgic in my life," I tell him. "Besides, there was nothing about that accursed road trip that I can look back on with fond memories."

"What about the night we met?"

"You mean, the night you chased us down in the middle of nowhere on a dirt road and cornered us in in a Quiet Zone at Carhenge to be ambushed by a wereskunk and his creepy hybrid posse?"

"You have to admit," he says, sounding rather nostalgic himself, "that's pretty on brand for us."

"I stand by my previous statement," I say.

He turns his head quickly, dotting my cheek with a peck before he retreats to the back seat again. "Be difficult, it's fine. I know you secretly like me."

"Morgana, the two of you are just as bad," Agatha groans.

"Just as bad as what?" I ask.

She just shakes her head. "Where's the stop?"

"We've another few kilometres. There'll be a marker."

We're all quiet as we pull up to the marker and climb out of the car, though Agatha has to struggle a bit to keep Lucy from hopping out after us. We can't fuss with her yapping and prancing off while I'm taking measurements, but Agatha soundly refused to leave her at the manor. (I think she's afraid Baz is going to get annoyed and drain her.) (I don't think her fear is entirely unfounded.)

It's unnerving being out here. It always is, but I had thought it would be different, now that we've been staying in Hampshire for so many days. Shouldn't we be used to the feel of being inside a dead spot? But I guess we haven't really been, have we?

Does that mean that the estate is the only place where the magic has come back? No, all it means is that it probably hasn't come back to this particular place.

Dad and his team mapped out the entire county in a kind of grid pattern, marking each point with a small, nondescript piling, and it's my job now to check on all of them to take readings. It would be a lot easier if it wasn't freezing outside, but I can't really do this from the car, and I can't cast for privacy, so Shepard and Agatha have to help block me from sight.

The atmospheric magickal levels are monitored with a special instrument that I've been entrusted with by the Coven. It looks like a mobile phone.

I turn it on and hit the button to start the scan.

Much as I'd surmised, nothing registers.

It's not surprising. In fact, it's exactly what I should have expected. But I'm still disappointed, not because I had any indication that the magic would have reappeared here, too, but because I had let myself hope. I hadn't meant to, but I suppose the optimism sneaked in on me after all.

The others can see me deflate.

I know Shepard cares about this, but not as much as I do. He can't understand what it feels like to be here. Can't understand how terrifying it was all those years, knowing the magic was being gobbled up by some unseen enemy, never knowing when or where it was going to strike next. Never knowing why or how. Can't understand that moment of confusion and betrayal and panic when I found out that my best friend was the one responsible all that time.

Agatha understands most of it, but magic has never been as important to her as it has to me. It's not the centre of her world the way it's always been mine.

They must come to an unspoken agreement, because Agatha walks back to the car and climbs in to check on Lucy, and Shepard moves behind me, wrapping me in his arms and dropping his chin onto the top of my head. (I hate it when he does that, and he knows, so of course, he does it all the time.)

"It's not the end of the world, Pen," he tells me softly. "It's only one spot. It's only our first spot. I'd bet my entire cryptid pin collection that before the day's survey is done, you'll find another."

"That's an easy wager," I say. "No one wants your pin collection."

He huffs and gives me a squeeze. "Think about it this way," he begins, "nothing's really changed here for the worse, has it?"

"No."

"No. This spot is no better and no worse than it was the last time you came here with your dad to measure. So, nothing's been lost."

"Nothing's been gained."

"Yes, it has. Just not in this particular spot. But the magic is still coming back to Hampshire, even if it's only doing it at Pitch Manor. That's still something. It's still happening. And it makes more sense that it would happen there, even if it's not happening anywhere else."

"Why?"

"That was the epicentre of the attack."

I'm shaking my head. "That's not how it works. The Humdrum attacks were almost never in the same places the dead spots appeared."

"Okay, but they were the same place in this instance. And it doesn't matter. You said Pitch Manor was a magickal landmark, that generations of Pitches' magic was tied to that house. If it's the most magickal place in Hampshire, then it makes sense it would be the first place to get its magic back."

"I suppose that could make some sense."

"Was that the great Penelope Bunce telling me I'm right?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"Of course you wouldn't." He chuckles and I feel his chest vibrate with his laughter where it rests against my back. We're sort of cosy like this, even if it is a bit tooth-rottingly sweet. "Would you tell me I'm right if I said that you're a brillaint magician who isn't going to disappoint her father or the Coven?"

"This has nothing to do with disappointing anyone," I insist, trying to sneak out of his arms. He holds me fast, and I give up, slumping against him.

"That's good. Because if you were afraid of that, I'd have to tell you that you have absolutely no reason to worry, because Martin thinks you're brilliant and would never have let you come out here and entrusted you with this if he didn't believe in you and your abilities. And he definitely would have sent someone else out here when you told him about the wraiths. You talked him out of coming, remember? He trusted you. He does trust you. And the Coven really doesn't have a say in it, do they? You've saved their magickal butts too many times for them to complain."

I open my mouth, but he adds quickly, "not that I'm implying they have anything to complain about."

My objection turns into a begrudging laugh. "How am I supposed to argue with you when you undermine all of my points before I make them?"

"Easy," he says, and I feel him shrug. "You're not."

"You aren't as slick as you think you are," I say.

"I'm an oil slick," he asserts immediately, voice teasing, but confident.

I know I'm a bit harder on him than he deserves, but he manages it well. He manages me well. Maybe too well. I tell him I'm a tornado, and he tells me he chases storms.

I guess that's why we work. I didn't think we would, to be honest. I didn't think I could ever get past his weird obsession with chasing down magic, but. Well, isn't that exactly what I'm doing right now?

The thing about Shepard is that he always seems to know where to meet a person. And if you're not in the right headspace to meet him at all, he finds a way to reframe your headspace.

I wrap my arms around his arms and give him a squeeze in return. "You'd better hope we find evidence of magickal activity before we get back to the manor, or I'm putting your pin collection on eBay."

"You wouldn't dare."

"I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

He laughs. "You'll never be able to part with my cyclone pin."

"I wouldn't bet on it. Oh, wait, you already did."

"You're forgetting that if you take my bet, you're going to have to wager something against my pins."

"Fine. If we find evidence of magickal activity, I'll tell you that you were right and I was wrong."

"Oh my god."

"It's not going to happen."

"I'm going to get this on video. I'm going to send it to everyone I know."

"It's not going to happen, but feel free to enjoy your little fantasy while it lasts."

He gives my head a kiss. "This is going to be the best day ever!"

He does record it, but I'm honestly too happy by what it means to care.


	19. Day 19: Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz didn't tell his family he wasn't coming home for Christmas, but it's probably fine, right?

**SIMON**

I don't know how you just forget to tell your family that you're not coming home for Christmas.

I've never had a family, and even I know you can't just not show up.

Agatha said she talked to her parents; they gave her her presents early, and sent her along with gifts for the rest of us. Because that's who the Wellbeloves are.

Penelope's parents know she's here, obviously, because she's working for the Coven. Plus, she's been in daily contact with both of them, giving updates on her findings. Her dad got the rest of his team assembled and they're going out to look at the smaller dead spots I opened when I gave up my magic. He's really optimistic they'll get good readings, especially knowing there are other places in Hampshire where the magickal atmosphere is showing signs of activity. It feels a bit like an early Christmas present to me.

I'm pretty sure Shepard's family isn't expecting him for the holidays, seeing as he's in England and they're in America. He does get good flights through his dad's work, but he doesn't act like he's in a hurry to be anywhere else. (Penny's here.)

I figured Baz had told his family, too. I know he talked to Fiona about it; I was there. Maybe I shouldn't have just assumed that meant Baz had also talked to his parents. This is the man who likes everything to go "poetically unsaid". He didn't mention that he was flying to Chicago and going on a road trip to San Diego, so I guess it's not surprising.

I just can't believe he really didn't tell them, left them to find out from Fiona once she finally made her way up to Oxford.

To no one's surprise, the Grimms weren't exactly thrilled.

Baz has been locked up in the study for half an hour. We can't really hear him from the library, even though the rooms are right next to each other. I bet if I had his vampire super hearing I'd know what he was saying. I'd probably know what his dad was saying, too. Unless Daphne's the one who called him. Neither one of them is really the type to yell. Daphne is sweet and supportive and will make you feel guilty, and Malcolm's more of the cold shoulder. Maybe they decided to play dirty and have one of Baz's siblings call. There's no way they'd have talked Mordelia into it, even if they'd bribed her with more presents, but maybe one of the twins. Maybe both of the twins.

If they really wanted to go low, they'd have called me instead of Baz. I'm glad they didn't. I still feel terrible about the magic thing, there's no way I'd have been able to tell them no. Especially while I'm standing in the house I drove them out of on Christmas.

I don't know what he's telling them. I don't think he can explain about the magic yet. Partly because he wants more information to give when he does break the news, and partly because the property belongs to the Pitch family, and if Baz is going to tell anyone, it has to be Fiona first. I guess they could get her on the line…

We're all just sitting around, waiting, pretending we're not trying to overhear. Well, I'm pretending. Penelope actually put her ear to the wall at one point. Shepard pulled her away. Agatha keeps letting out long sighs and dropping her head over the back of her chair.

I'm not sure why they're all so nervous. I know why I'm nervous, but Baz is my boyfriend. Also, I don't want his family to think that I'm trying to come between them or something. I know Baz won't use me as an excuse, but if he's spending the holiday with me and not bringing me to spend it with them, then it's not hard to draw the conclusion that he's choosing me over them.

I'm still not sure what he told Fiona. He left the room while he was on the phone with her, for privacy, I think. Or maybe because he was lying and he didn't want me to hear.

If I'm the reason he's here and not there, then I'm probably also the reason he's lying to his family right now.

That makes me feel pretty shitty, even though Baz should be the one feeling shitty. He's definitely acting shitty.

He didn't have any right to put me in this position.

I give up on waiting and leave the library.

Penelope tries calling me back, but I don't hesitate, and I don't acknowledge her.

I'm at the door to the study without realising that's my destination, but I'm here, so there must be a reason. I knock, loudly.

There's a curse from the other side and then some muffled movement before the door swings open. An unamused Baz stares down at me. "What, Snow?"

"I'm angry with you," I tell him. My therapist says the direct approach is best, especially with anger. I can't let it simmer, because that leads to the kind of outbursts I used to have with going off. And I don't want to go off, especially not on Baz. Except, right now, I do. Verbally, I mean.

He puts his phone back to his hear. "Daphne, I have to go. I'll call later to talk to the children." After a moment of hesitation, he says quietly: "Love you, too."

I don't even wait until he's properly hung up before I push past him into the room and spin around. "What were you thinking?"

"You'll have to be more specific."

I growl. "How could you do this, again? You didn't think your parents would notice when you didn't show up for Christmas? You didn't think they'd care?"

"Of course I thought they'd care. I didn't think they'd understand."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

He frowns, holding up his hands. "Okay. I'm not sure why you're shouting at me. Daphne didn't call me because she was upset. She just wanted to make sure that we were doing okay. She worries about you, too, Simon. She didn't think this was the best place for you to be right now. Once I explained that I was here because I agreed with her, she didn't question it any further."

"You've been on the phone forever."

"She was telling me about the children's recitals."

"Oh."

"And then she offered to send me her pudding recipe, because she thought you'd enjoy it."

"Oh."

I'm feeling sort of deflated, even though I still think I'm right and Baz was being irresponsible. "What about your father?"

"He didn't have any recitals or recipes to share."

I growl again. "Don't try to be cheeky right now. You know what I'm asking."

He sighs. "I don't know what Father thinks about it, because he never tells anyone how he's feeling. Even Daphne, especially me."

"Baz! They're your family."

"You're my family. They're my relatives."

"That's not—"

"I didn't tell them I was coming here because they would never have let me and I needed to be here because you needed to be here. This is good for us, isn't it? Hasn't this been good for us? I didn't want them interfering, Simon. Fiona was on her way down here to drag me back to London with her."

"Because you left her a voicemail instead of talking to her about it."

"No. Because we're in a dead spot. They're only worried because they think that we're in unnecessary danger here."

"Maybe they wouldn't feel like they had to worry about you if you talked to them about things."

"I couldn't talk to them about this."

"Why not?"

"Because it's us, Simon. You and me. Our entire fucking relationship, here in this house. Everything that happened that year. I know it affected them, too, I know it affected the entire magickal world, but this is about us. And I wanted to keep it that way. I didn't want anyone else sticking their noses in. There are some things I just don't want to have to explain to them, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay." He sighs. "There's just so much tied up here. So much of who we were and who we are, you and I, together. And—"

"And?"

"And I wanted to be able to do this for you, be here, in the dead spot. I wanted us to be on equal footing again. I wanted to be able to show you without any doubt that you're the only thing that matters to me."

"I need you not to put me in the middle of you and your family," I tell him. I'm proud of myself for saying it. I have a hard time telling Baz what I need from him. For a long time, I didn't think I had the right to ask for anything, because I didn't think I was worth it. But now, we ask each other for what we need.

"They're not upset about this."

"I don't care. Just say that you won't and then don't."

"I won't."

"Good. Now, everyone's waiting on us in the library. Penny wants to go over the readings one more time and see if there's any kind of pattern we're missing."

"I didn't tell them about the magic," he admits.

"I know."

"Do you think that was wrong?"

"No. I agree with your reasons."

Before I can leave, he reaches for my arm. He doesn't hold me in place. He won't do anything that could make me feel like I'm trapped, and I appreciate that. "We haven't talked about how you're feeling with all of this. And you haven't talked to your therapist, have you?"

I shake my head. "I know. I need to."  
"Tomorrow, I think you should give her a call."

"Okay," I promise. "But I'd like you to be there for it."

He smiles and kisses my head. "I'd like that, too."


	20. Day 20: Technology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Shepard realizes the gang doesn't know how to do anything without magic, he generously decides to teach them some cutting edge life hacks.

**SHEPARD**

I can't believe the collective cluelessness in this house.

How do you get to your twenties without learning how to tie your shoes?

I honestly just can't even anymore.

It started out innocently enough. After we spent a very long day in the library going through Penny's research, Agatha turned on the huge wall-mounted TV to find a mind-numbing holiday movie, only to realize that the house doesn't have WiFi.

Honestly, not sure why that was a shock to anyone. I know the Pitches (Grimms?) (who cares?) have a lot of money, but even they can't be crazy enough to pay for service to a house no one lives in. (I mean, they probably are crazy; I've met Fiona.)

The WiFi thing led to this big argument about how to screen mirror from a phone, the upside of which was that (big surprise) no one knew what the hell screen mirroring is or how it works because they just use magic anytime they want to do something.

Penelope is an actual genius, with actual genius parents, and Baz can speak (and Speak) fluently in four languages. Simon was raised with Normals. And Agatha lived for _an entire year_ as a Normal. But not a single one of them actually knows how to do anything.

Simon's probably the most competent, because even when he had magic, he didn't really like to use it. But I don't think he ever had access to anything fancy in the care homes. (I don't think they were totally legit operations.)

Which means that I'm the one who has to explain everything to them. And I do mean everything.

We got into a very long talk about what they do and don't use magic for. It's like a crutch for them to keep from having to actually put in any effort for anything ever.

Laundry? Magic.

Washing dishes? Magic.

Cooking? Magic.

Tying their shoes? Yeah.

Magic is cool, don't get me wrong, but like. You know what else is cool? Learning basic life skills!

When they told me about the shoe thing, I almost walked out of the house.

I turned to look at Simon. "Please, please, please tell me that you at least know how to tie your own shoes."

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "'Course I do."

"Thank god," I sighed. "Okay, that's it. We're going to have a tutorial and the rest of you pathetic children are going to learn how to function."

That suggestion went over like a lead balloon. Big surprise. I know Baz and Penelope think they know everything, but it's not as endearing a personality trait as they think it is. (Which is proof they don't know everything.)

Anyway, that's how I ended up sitting on the floor and taking off my shoes.

"Eugh," Penelope scrunches up her face. "Put that back on."

"My feet are fine," I sigh. "And I'm wearing the cute little Christmas socks you bought me."

Penelope doesn't acknowledge that, but she does go a little red. She gets embarrassed about doing couple-y things with me. She's not really the soft, romantic type. It's fine, I get. It's part of her appeal. I like a challenge.

I hold up my shoe, which does not smell, thank you very much, and untie the laces. "What do you normally use?" I ask. "I know you've gotta have a spell for this."

No one speaks for a long moment. They're still so cagey about this stuff. Like I'm going to run off and start telling all of the Talkers what their secret spells are. The spells are useless to anyone who can't Speak with magic. And I'd just look like a lunatic.

"Oh, come on, guys. Haven't I earned your trust by now?"

"It's the one about the bunny," Simon says. "Isn't it?"

"Bunny?" I ask. This cannot be happening. They cannot honestly all be this dense!

Penny and Baz both look annoyed with Simon; Agatha just looks bored. She's wearing Ugg boots and they don't have laces. (I don't think I've ever seen her wear shoes that do.) If you're a magician living without a wand and you can't tie your own shoes, I guess you'd stop wearing shoes with laces. Because that's the only practical solution. Not looking up YouTube tutorials or WikiHow articles or something. _That_ would be crazy.

"What?" Simon asks. "I've heard you both use it."

I put my face into my hand. "Let me see if I have this right," I say. "You learned the bunny rhyme as a spell for tying your shoes, and none of you ever thought to actually, I don't know. Do what the rhyme says and tie your shoes yourself? You do realize that's what the rhyme is, right? A mnemonic device for helping small children learn the steps to tying their shoes."

"Any idiot child can tie their shoes. It's takes expert skill to magic them."

Baz is getting defensive now. I don't know how expert a Speaker has to be to tie their shoes; presumably, they learn the spell young if they don't ever learn to do it manually.

"As a child you called an idiot," Simon says, giving Baz a very smug grin, "I think I'd like to see you try it."

Baz doesn't remove his own shoes, but he does move his legs to be in front of him, feet flat on the ground. Penelope sighs dramatically and does the same.

"Okay, so, first, you need to untie your shoes. Do you know how to do that part without magickal assistance?"

Neither one of them dignifies that with a response.

I can tell Agatha is trying not to seem interested. I'm not sure if it's because she's enjoying the roasting I'm giving Pen and Baz, or if it's because she's genuinely curious how to do this, too. I take off my other shoe and pass it over to her.

She looks up at me, horrified. "Honestly," I say. "There's nothing wrong with my feet."

"They're feet, aren't they?" She asks.

"My feet are probably a lot nicer than yours," I tell her. "You did ballet, didn't you?" I pretend to shudder. "No, thank you. You're better off using one of mine."

She wants to smile, I can tell, but she resists the urge.

Simon's got his chin on Baz's shoulder now, and he's smiling broadly. "Come on, Baz. I'm sure you'll get the hang of it. If not, I can always tutor you."

"Fuck off, Snow," Baz says.

God, the two of them. They'll make my teeth rot before this holiday is over.

How do I explain that to a dentist?—This crowd probably doesn't believe in dentists. They probably just magic the plaque away. (Actually, that would be pretty useful.) Baz has to be doing something, doesn't he? It's not like he can go to the dentist with his fangs. Maybe he's not susceptible to plaque. Does vampire venom provide a special, impenetrable enamel coating?

"Right," I say, trying to put some authority into my voice. "So, we all know the first line of the rhyme, or the spell. Whatever makes you feel better."

And that's when all of modern society breaks down. Because, no, apparently, we do not all know the first line of the rhyme. We all know the first line of _different_ rhymes, all to tie shoes, all about bunnies. What is it with bunnies and shoelaces? I've never seen a bunny wear shoes. Not even a jackalope.

"You're saying it wrong," Penelope is shouting at me. Or maybe Baz. I can't tell which one of us she's mad at, or if it's the situation. She's removed both of her shoes at this point and is waving one of them around like a cudgel. Her hair has started to flop out of her bun. (She's cute like this.) (She's always cute.)

"It doesn't matter," I try to reason. "Just follow the steps of your own rhymes. Focus on the bunny. What does the bunny do?"

"The bunny fucks off if it knows what's good for it," Baz mutters under his breath.

"Baz drinks the bunny," is Simon's brilliant contribution to this holiday shit show. Simon is so completely obsessed with the blood drinking thing, it's almost kind of embarrassing at this point. I don't think Baz has caught on yet (because he is definitely not as clever as he thinks he is), but I don't think Simon could be more obvious if he literally pulled a historical sword out of thin air and slit his own throat.

"Baz leaves the bunny alone because it's defenseless and doesn't deserve to die," Agatha says, stabbing at the loop she's made with the aglet end of the other lace. Well, that's progress, I guess. She got the loop.

"I suppose I'll just have to convert to human blood drinking, then, shall I?"

"Oh for the Grace of Slick," Penelope swears, glasses askew. "Will the three of you please stop for just five bloody minutes so I can tie a bloody shoe?"

To her credit, she does tie it. In a knot. A very secure knot.

"I mean," I say. "The laces are definitely tied. And they aren't going to untie. Maybe try again, and this time, don't murder the laces."

"This is impossible," Baz tosses his shoe away. He did eventually remove his shoes. I guess he needed more leverage?

Simon lets go of Baz's shoulders, falling backward onto his wings, hooting with laughter.

"Shut it," Baz says menacingly, but Simon can't seem to stop.

"Don't worry, Baz," Simon gasps in between laughing fits. "I'll give you private lessons."

"Please don't," Agatha begs. She holds up my shoe, perfectly tied, and slaps it down on the floor with an impressive thunk. "Are we done? I thought we were going to watch shitty Christmas movies."

"I wonder if there's one about a Christmas bunny," Simon says.

Baz and Penelope throw their shoes at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I think the gang would really all be wearing shoes (with laces) in the house? Idk. Suspend disbelief.


	21. Day 21: Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz meditates on the benefits of dating his own personal heater.

**BAZ**

After lunch, Simon calls his therapist.

He's taken a seat on the floor in front of the fireplace, almost in the same spot we spent most of our first night together. Kissing and touching and whispering the secret wishes of our hearts. Every time I'm in this room, I get flashes of that night. And the next, when Simon asked me to be his boyfriend, officially.

I remember waking up that morning convinced that he would think everything had been a mistake, or that I would find out it had all been a very vivid dream.

It was a dream, but the waking kind. The kind even someone like me can have, occasionally.

Simon has built us a fire, because apparently that's something else he knows how to do that I don't. (I'm not going to make a list. He probably already has one.) I'm sure it was something he learned on one of his Outward Bound-type missions, a team building activity he did with the Mage.

I take a seat behind him, wrapping my arms around his middle, leaning my head against his back, cradled between his shoulder blades and his wings. He folds them back, sheltering me, keeping me close to him. He's okay with being touched right now, so I'm going to take full advantage.

I think it's easier for him this way, if he knows I'm here with him, and he doesn't actually have to face me. Less spotlight, less attention. Like he's just talking to the room.

I know he's nervous, though, because he's got his tail in his hands, running them over the length, wrapping it around his wrists, his palms, his fingers, watching it slowly unwind. He's been worrying at it all morning, and he started again the moment he sat down.

I want to take his hands in mine and hold them still, but I don't. I let him be. I'm just here to be.

Be with him.

Be here for him.

Be warmed by him.

It's soaking through his shirt, and my shirt, and my skin.

The _life_ of him.

Sinking into me, bone deep.

Saturating.

Like our colours are bleeding together at the edges. Blurring.

If only I could always manage to keep him this close to me.

I know he'll pull away.

He always does during these calls. When talking about his emotions becomes too daunting. When he feels like he needs to run. Then I'll sit back and I'll wait. I'll wait and I'll offer him my hand and I'll take him out and let him fly.

I'll watch the wind whipping through his hair and beating against his face, leaving it chapped and ruddy. I'll wait for him with a cup of hot tea and a blanket and a pair of arms that for the briefest window will be warmer than him.

I'll warm him in my arms and then he'll warm me in his. He'll give it all back to me.

Those are the moments I live for.

When I can give him something in return for all that he gives me.


	22. Day 22: Unlikely Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny ruminates on her friendship with Baz.

**PENELOPE**

After lunch, Simon went upstairs to call his therapist. (She's in Chicago, so it's still early in the morning for her.)

I'm glad he's doing it. He's made so much progress now that he's gone back to therapy.

And I'm glad Baz is sitting in with him. I keep hoping, one of these days, that Baz will break down and make his own appointment.

Because this is who I am now. Someone who worries about Baz's mental health.

Someone who eats lunch with Baz, and volunteers to do the washing up in Baz's kitchen, and spends the Christmas holidays in his ancestral home.

I spent most of my childhood hating Baz. And his family and his politics and the way he was always looking at Simon like he was going to attack him. (He still does that, but Baz's version of attacking Simon is usually just with his mouth.) (And not in the vampire way.)

I certainly never thought I'd be here, in a dead spot, in Pitch Manor, willingly.

(Although, the library does have one of those rolling ladders mounted on a track. I'm going to take it for a spin before we leave. It's going to be epic!)

I suppose it still takes a bit of getting used to, Baz and I, being friends. Being almost best friends. Sometimes, I have to remind myself. Remind myself that we aren't on opposite sides anymore, politically. That we're both done with politics and wish that the Coven and the Old Families would just remove their heads from their arses and work together for the betterment of the entire World of Mages. Remind myself that we aren't academic rivals anymore. That his success isn't a sign of my failure. It's just a sign that my friend is doing well. And he is, academically speaking. (That's never been in question.)

But I still worry about the rest of him. When you grow up seeing yourself as a monster, the same monster who murdered your mother in front of you when you were only five, it tends to take a mental toll. And no one in his family will _talk about it_. Which means that Baz won't talk about it. He's getting better about talking, because of all the work he and Simon have been putting in, but he still doesn't really talk about _that_.

He's had to hide his whole life. He's very good at hiding. But after everything we've been through together, I can recognise the signs. He's still a bit weird about eating around us, even though he's finally learned to control his fangs. (That isn't something he told us. I only know because we were listening to his conversation with Lamb when he taught Baz how to do it.) (Baz would never have told us that. Which is part of my point.) He's definitely still weird about drinking blood around us, even though we've all seen it after the Road Trip From Hell. (Maybe it should be the Road Trip _To_ Hell, because that's what it felt like.)

Not that I want to sit around watching Baz suck blood out of things. (I'm not Simon.) I just wish that he felt more comfortable with the part of himself that needs that blood, and more comfortable being around us, too.

I think the best I can do to get him in that direction is just to stick around. That's what I did with Simon. To let him know that he'll still have me in his life even when he's not doing too well, because I've always been there before. Eventually, he'll have to give in and acknowledge that he likes having me around. Baz wants to be tough, but he's a marshmallow. A burnt marshmallow: crusty on the outside, but a sticky, gooey mess inside.

...I wonder. Are we out of marshmallows? I think I'm going to make some hot chocolate.


	23. Day 23: Cooking/Baking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agatha and Penelope decide to carry on their biscuit baking tradition and Shepard pitches in.

**PENELOPE**

I'm still in the kitchen when Agatha and Shepard wander back in, looking windblown and chilled through (no weatherisation spells here). They took Lucy for a walk. They've been getting on better since we got here—Agatha and Shepard, I mean. Lucy gets on well with everyone, except for Baz. But that's understandable. To Baz, Lucy is a light snack. Anyway, I think Agatha's finally warming up to Shepard. I wish she'd warm up to me one of these days. (I've only helped to save her life countless times.) (It's fine.)

"Agatha told me the two of you always get together at Christmas to bake gingerbread cookies."

I flinch. "Biscuits, Shepard. They're called _biscuits_."

"They're not what I call biscuits."

I roll my eyes. "We don't always get together. We didn't last year."

"I was in California," Agatha says, sounding defensive.

"I know. And we didn't get together."

"We could do it this year," she offers. "If you're that upset about it."

"I'm not," I say. But once I think about it, maybe I am. "No. I _am_ upset. No more taking our friendship for granted. You and I are baking gingerbread biscuits."

"I found a new vegan recipe and—"

"Ugh," I groan and stick my tongue out. "Do not finish that sentence."

Agatha laughs. "Fine, take all the fun out of it."

"How is vegan baking fun?"

"It's a challenge," she says.

I roll my eyes. "I think the last thing we need when it comes to baking without magic is a challenge."

I'm right, of course.

It takes us at least half an hour to decide on a non-vegan recipe, and then we're left to scour the kitchen cupboards to try to locate all of the ingredients. We've gotten fairly adept over the last several days with sorting out the placement of things, but that's probably because Baz is usually here to point us in the right direction.

"I can't find any golden syrup," Agatha tells us, checking yet another cupboard.

"What's golden syrup again?" Shepard asks. "Like maple syrup?"

"No," I say.

"I've always just used molasses for gingerbread," he says. "I've never seen it done this way."

"If we don't have golden syrup," Agatha sighs, crossing her arms and leaning back against the cupboard door, "we definitely don't have molasses."

"Found some!" I cry out, holding the tin triumphantly aloft.

Shepard barely waits until I've gotten it open before he dunks a finger inside and takes a sample. I try to smack him away. "No sampling! We need to use this, you know."

He makes a face. "Way too sweet."

I'm inclined to agree, but it's not like I'm going to sit down and eat it right out of the tin like he just did.

"It's not like your palette is so refined," I tell him. "I've seen you put ketchup on almost everything."

"Ketchup is a condiment. It's meant to be put on things."

"Yes," I say, and I give him a boop him on the nose, because he's right there and he's giving me a goofy smile, "it's a condiment, not a lifestyle."

"No flirting over my gingerbread," Agatha protests, trying to use her hands to cover the bowl we've putting the dry ingredients in. "You'll ruin the texture."

"I feel like I should be documenting this," Shepard says, pulling his mobile out of his pocket. "For posterity."

"Put that away," I tell him. "We've already gone viral. We don't need to go viral again."

Agatha points a whisk at me. " _You_ went viral," she corrects. "I was being groomed for slaughter by a cult leader. Don't lump me into your crimes."

I'm still getting used to Agatha's dry humour. I like it, though. California let her grow into herself. She couldn't do that in England where everyone knew her, and had ideas about who she should be and what she should do. (I was one of them.)

We've all been finding ourselves. Shepard says that's normal (not Normal). We're in a transitional period in our lives and figuring out what's next is part of the adventure. We're not supposed to know everything right now, and if we do, it's a good sign that we're missing out on something big. (I'm not sure if that last part was meant to be directed at me or not, but it felt rather pointed.)

Anyway, Agatha's come a long way since Watford. I think she's probably made more progress than the rest of us. I suppose running off to California and leaving your whole life behind and everyone in it will give you that edge. I could have run off, too. Gone to university in Chicago with Micah, started a new life. I didn't, though, because I didn't want to run from my life, or start a new one. I like being here, and I like the work I'm doing, for my dad. I'm not an official member of his team, because I'm still in school, but I'm making a difference and I get to spend hours talking about magickal theory with some of the most knowledgeable mages in the field. And I don't need Micah. I never did. I don't need a man, full stop. I have Shepard, but my existence isn't defined by our relationship, and he doesn't expect it to be. Shepard is staying in England with me, because that's what he wants to do. I didn't ask him to give anything up for me, and he didn't ask it of me. Also, no one wants to go back to _Nebraska_.

We're all still figuring things out, but I think we're in a place where we're giving ourselves the time and the patience to do it, without pressure.

That doesn't mean it's easy, though.

Neither is baking biscuits without magic.

Shepard could be helpful, except he doesn't know anything about grams and keeps Googling how to convert Celsius to Fahrenheit, because he's convinced the oven temperature is too low.

"It's on the recipe," I tell him again. "It's fine. Stop fussing!"

"Why don't you tell us about the year you met Father Christmas and helped him deliver presents to all the good little children," Agatha suggests as she rolls out the dough. She was put in charge of rolling by default: she has the strongest arms.

Shepard nearly drops his phone. "I thought Father Christmas wasn't real," he says. He looks at me accusingly. "You told me he wasn't real, Pen."

"He isn't," I say.

He narrows his eyes. "I'd better not find out that you've been lying to me to protect some big magicians' secret."

Agatha laughs. "Fine. No stories about Father Christmas. Have you ever built a snowman who came to life?"

"No," Shepard says, sounding despondent at the fact that this is a life experience he's somehow been deprived. He sits down on one of the stools at the island. "I haven't even met a yeti. I'm really lacking in proper holiday-themed tales."

"You made friends with a wraith," I remind him with a nudge, trying to perk him up. "A Christmas wraith."

Agatha groans. "Just for that, I'm icing every gingerbread person in pink."

Shepard looks between us, confused. "I like pink," he says. "Also, after we're done with the biscuits, I think we should bake crackers."

"Crackers?" I ask. "Why do you want to bake crackers?"

"Isn't that a British thing?"

"Huh?"

Agatha practically cackles. "Christmas crackers!" She squeaks. "He thinks you eat them!"

...

Bonus: The finished biscuits!


	24. Dec 18: Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang decides to sing carols and it gives Simon an idea.

**SIMON**

I can feel snow coming in while I'm airborne.

After I land and Baz bundles me back into the house, the others have fresh gingerbread biscuits waiting.

I don't think it has anything to do with me talking to my therapist, other than the fact that Baz and I were busy with that, so they did something else. But if they were trying to do something thoughtful because they thought I was having a hard time, it definitely worked. I was doing pretty good without the biscuits, though. Things are hard to navigate for me right now, emotionally, but my therapist let me know that it's okay not to understand everything and to try to just let things wash over me. To allow myself to experience whatever emotions I have when I have them. To not feel like I need to be excited about the magic, or terrified, or something. And that if I'm both at the same time, that's okay, too.

I know Baz and Penny have both told me as much, but it does help hearing it from someone with an actual degree in telling people things, and not just amateur credentials.

With the snow and the biscuit decorating, I'm finally starting to feel a bit festive for the first time since we got here. It's not that I haven't been enjoying myself with the crafts and getting to give Baz his presents, but Penny's also been doing a lot of work, and I've been helping where I can (mostly just letting her take my levels and answering her questions about how I'm feeling). We're not just here for the holiday, and this has been the first day I've almost forgotten that.

I shove another gingerbread person into my mouth. We've been icing them for nearly an hour and I'm getting antsy again. "We should do something," I say.

"We _are_ doing something," Baz says. "We're decorating and you're eating."

"You're not really decorating," I say. "You're just standing there criticising everything I do."

"Right, I'm helping you not ruin the biscuits. Look at the atrocity you made of my flowered suit."

"What? It looks perfect."

"It will look much better once you've devoured it," he replies, holding it up for me.

There's a twinkle in his eyes that wasn't there before. I open my mouth and take a bite, snapping off the gingerbread man's head. Baz's mouth quirks a bit on one side.

"Ugh," Penelope groans. "I've lost my appetite."

I ignore her. Baz does, too.

"More cheesy Christmas movies?" Shepard suggests. "Make _paper_ crackers?" He smiles at Penelope. "Board games? We could play real life Clue."

"Cluedo," Penelope corrects half-heartedly.

"Charades? Christmas pageant? Song and dance."

I shove Baz with my elbow. "Baz! You've got your violin. You could play it and we could sing carols."

"I don't know any Christmas carols," Baz says. Baz _lies_.

"You do so! You're just trying to get out of it."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm not here solely for your entertainment, Snow."

"Yes, you are."

He tries not to laugh at that, but he fails.

"We should all get on our ugly Christmas sweaters," Shepard says, then corrects himself before Penelope can. "Jumpers. And gather around the spinnet."

"I don't have a single ugly article of clothing or a spinnet," Baz says.

"Aw," Shepard moans, "I'm sure I saw one down in the dungeon."

"Yes, an ugly Christmas jumper would be quite the perfect torture device," Baz deadpans.

"You still need to take me down there," I remind Baz. "I can't believe you never told me the dungeon was real."

"Was there a mythical dungeon?" Baz raises an eyebrow.

I blush a bit. "I guess, in my mind there was."

"I'm not even going to ask why you've been dreaming up dungeons under your boyfriend's house," he scoffs, but I can tell he wants to anyway. I'll tease him about it later. When we're alone.

"Christmas carols," I say instead. "Christmas carols!" I'm clapping my hands now. "Christ-mas-car-ols!"

Baz rolls his eyes so mightily, he tips a bit with the motion. "Fine, you menace."

I smile up at him sweetly and try to kiss his cheek, except he leans farther away from me so I kind of go sliding down to his shoulder. I grab his arm and pull him to me. "Don't be such a prat. You're only making a fuss because you want the attention."

"Slander!"

"Oh, haven't we suffered enough?" Agatha groans. "Just go get your bloody violin Baz and spare us the love fest."

I can tell Baz's cheeks are trying to flush with blood he can't spare. (I have blood to spare, but he doesn't really like it when I remind him of that, and he's being mostly cooperative right now, so I don't bring it up.)

Baz fetches his violin and meets us in the library. This is where he always used to play, so it feels like the right place for our little concert, even if it's also where all of our research and data is strewn about. I'm not sure when we all came to the unspoken conclusion that we weren't going to be doing any work today, but I prefer it like this.

I like it when Baz plays for me. It doesn't even matter that we're not alone.

He's beautiful when he plays. (He's always beautiful. But it's a different kind of beautiful.) He plays sort of like he casts. Like the music inside of him is the spark to his match, flowing out through him just like his fire.

When we were in America, Baz and Penny cast a hymn together by singing when they were both clapped out. It was unreal. It was _amazing_. That's because music is magickal. Especially when it comes to Baz. He's fucking transcendant.

"Hey, Baz?"

He looks up at me while he's tuning. "Hmm?"

"Suppose you could actually summon Jesus this time, it being Christmas and all."

He's halfway through shaking his head at me and then stops. Locks eyes with me. Turns to Penelope. Sees that she's already staring at us.

"You splendid fucking nightmare, Simon Snow Salisbury," Baz practically shouts, dropping his violin and grabbing me by the face and kissing me hard. "You absolute, literal disaster."

I know I've done something right when Baz is incapable of speech beyond hurling fond insults in my direction.

"Should I understand what's going on here?" Agatha asks.

"I think we just have to let them do their thing, get it out of their systems," Shepard replies. "You know they won't explain anything when they're like this."

"Oh, joy," Agatha sighs. "Well, maybe I'll give Minty a call and—"

"You're not going anywhere or calling anyone," Penelope orders firmly. "Get your wand."

"Why do—never mind. On my way, reporting for duty."

Penelope untucks her necklace from the collar of her jumper. Instead of getting it set in a new ring, she had her stone fitted to a pendant. It looks a bit like one of those new age crystals the earthy kind of girls Agatha hangs out with are always wearing. Penny said it would be easier to hide if she could tuck it away. (She's still afraid of losing it.)

Baz already has his wand in hand. He's always got it up his sleeve or in his pocket, even in a place without enough magic to cast.

"Shep, how's your singing voice?" Penelope asks him.

He looks only slightly uncomfortable at her question, or possibly the intensity in her eyes as she asks it. "It's not bad. I was at a camp one summer with a lake and this siren—"

"That's great, sweetie," she interrupts, "just make sure you keep hold of my hand."

"Shepard's doing this, too?" I ask, feeling left out. It was sort of my idea. Shepard isn't even a mage, but Penelope expects him to help. Why? Just because he has demonic runes? I've got literal fucking dragon wings made of pure magic.

"We need power," Penelope explains. "Language is power. Normal language. Shepard is a Normal. If he speaks with us, I think he can give us a bit of a push."

"Is this a working theory?" Baz asks. "When were you going to share?"

Penny huffs. "Focus, Basil."

"I am focussed. I'm focussed on wondering what reason you could possibly have to hide your hypothesis."

"It's not relevant to this exercise."

"It is if you're trying to use a Normal to give yourself a magickal edge."

"Give myself?" Penelope baulks. "I'm trying to give all of us a magickal edge! We're working on this together, Baz. We're not in competition anymore."

"I'm not always sure you're aware of that."

Agatha comes back before the conversation can get too heated. Lucy's trotting behind her, tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth. She can sense the energy's changed and she's having fun.

"Right," Agatha says, brandishing her wand. "What are we doing?"

"Yeah, what are you going to sing?" I ask.

"You're not getting out of this," Baz says.

"Me?" I ask. "Baz, I'm a dead spot."

"You're standing in a dead spot," he counters. "And it's starting to fill."

"But I'm still completely empty. And my words don't have power. I'm even more useless than Shepard."

Shepard scoffs. "Kind words, friend."

"You know what I mean. I'll only be in the way."

"Part of the power of a Christmas carol is in the collective voices," Baz tells me. "Magickal or not. You're needed."

I don't know if I buy that, but Baz is giving me kind of a smouldery look, so I don't argue. (Is he giving me a look? Or does he just look like that because he's excited? It doesn't matter. It's a good look.)

"I guess the next question," Baz starts, "is which song we choose."

"Does it have to be a Christmas carol?" Shepard asks.

"No," Penelope says, "but given the time of year, it will be better if we do. Holidays are powerful. Using a song about Christmas time during Christmas time contributes to its deeper meaning."

"And a lot of other people will be singing and playing and listening to Christmas songs right now," Baz adds. "Same essential theory of having you participate, Shepard."

Shepard nods.

"Something about Christ," Agatha suggests. "Since Simon is here."

"What?" I ask.

She rolls her eyes. "Prophesied Chosen One sent by an absentee father to sacrifice himself and save the world? Have you not been paying attention?"

"That's not—"

"She has a point, Snow."

"Hang on," I say. "This was my idea."

Penelope puts her hand on my arm. "We're not going to be casting anything _on_ you, Simon."

"How do you know?" I ask. "You don't know what your song spell will do."

"He has a point, Bunce."

Penelope huffs and turns to Baz. "Fine, then. What do you suggest we use?"

" _The Holly and the Ivy_ ," he says immediately.

"Why?" She asks.

"It's traditional, it's British, it has a long history, it's well known and still performed, it has religious overtones, and we have both plants in the woods here. Also, we have deer." He gestures toward me. "And our Christ figure. Plus," he adds, raising his violin, "I know the song."

"What will it do, though?" I ask.

"Probably nothing," Baz admits. "The magic here is still very thin. At best, we may be able to brighten up the woods a bit."

"It would be better to do it at sunrise," Penelope says.

Baz looks at her. "Are you willing to wait?"

"Absolutely not!"

He laughs. "I didn't think so." With a dramatic flourish, he points his wand toward the doorway. "Shall we?"

"We're going outside?" Shepard asks, sounding doubtful. "I thought it was going to snow."

"I'm sure we'll be back inside before the situation grows dire," Baz says dryly.

"Are you going to play?" I ask Baz on our way to get our coats and boots. "I thought you were going to sing."

"I am going to sing," he says, "but I'm also going to play."

"Why? Can you even do both at the same time?"

"The song has an organ and choir. We have a choir, of sorts. No organ, but I think having an instrument will work. _Magic understands metaphor_ ," he quotes to me with a wink.

I roll my eyes, but don't comment.

I didn't even know it was physically possible to play and sing at the same time. I've never seen Baz do it before. And if he's playing, he can't hold his wand. Maybe he doesn't need to. Maybe having it with him is enough. He used it for _Amazing Grace_ , but that doesn't really mean he has to, I guess. I don't know much about musical magic.

"Do you think you should get your grandfather's bow?" I ask, even though we're already headed out toward the woods.

"I'll be fine, Snow."

 _But will I?_ I wonder.

It's not that I'm afraid the spell is going to do something bad to me. It's that I'm afraid it's not going to work. Or that it is going to work. I don't know which outcome I want. I don't know what I want.

I grab his arm and he stops and turns. "What is it?"

Penelope and the others turn to look at us. Baz nods them on, so they go ahead.

"I don't know," I tell him. "I don't know how I feel about this."

He sighs, but turns his whole body to face me. The look on his face is gentle. He's not upset or frustrated or impatient. "None of what happens right now has to mean anything for you," he says. "Even if we pull the magic back in, even if we coat the entire bloody estate in holly and ivy, it can just be that, Simon. I'm not doing this because I'm trying to fix you."

I nod. "I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes, Baz! I know. This isn't me thinking that you're unhappy with me. I just don't know what to think right now."

"That's okay. It's like your therapist said: things are complicated and your feelings don't have to make sense. Just let them be what they're going to be, and deal with them as they come, right?"

I nod. "Right."

"Whatever the outcome, whatever your feelings, I'll be here. I'll always be here, love."

I nod again and drop my head onto his chest. He awkwardly wraps his violin, bow, and wand-laden hands under my wings and around my back.

"Why does everything have to be so fucking complicated?" I groan. "I thought we were just going to sing Christmas carols and I'd get to watch you play and then tell you all the things it made me think about when we're alone tonight."

I feel a puff of warm air wash over my temple. "You're still going to sing, I'm still going to play, and you can still tell me all the things you're thinking about. You can even do some of them."

"Is that a promise?"

"I would promise you anything, Simon."

That gets me to raise my head. He's all shades of grey against a grey sky. Deep-water eyes, grey pink skin, pitch black hair.

"You're the only thing I want."

"You've got me."

I kiss his chin, because it's the only thing currently in my reach. "Good. Then promise you'll let me keep you."

"Done."

He keeps an arm around me, and I keep one around him, as we walk the rest of the way. The others have found a clearing several metres deep into the edge of the trees. I don't see any holly or ivy or deer around, but I suppose we just need to know that they’re all out there somewhere. Or we're supposed to be bringing them to us. I'm not that clear on the idea, but I guess it's not important. It's my voice that’s needed, not my intent.

"Everyone, join hands," Penelope instructs, pulling off her necklace chain and gripping her stone tightly in her right palm, then pressing it against Agatha's palm. In her other hand, Agatha's holding her wand toward the deeper part of the forest. Shepard takes Penny's free hand, so I take his.

Baz needs both of his to play, which is good, because he stands at just the perfect angle for me to get the full show. He plays a single note, and I think it's meant as a kind of tuner, or something, because he sings the note as he plays it. Shepard joins in. He's got a good voice. (I guess the siren taught him well). Penelope does not have a good voice, and she doesn't even bother trying to find the note. Agatha doesn't try, either, but her voice is decent. She is a little embarrassed about singing in front of other people, though.

Before he starts to play in earnest, Baz reaches his bow hand out to me. He's holding his wand in it, too.

"What?" I ask.

"My wand," he says.

"Want me to put it in your pocket?"

"No, Snow, I want you to hold it."

"Oh, okay," I say, and take it from him. I tuck it into my pocket.

"No, Snow. Hold it. In your hand or your tail or something."

"Why?"

"Humour me," he says.

I feel a bit weird about it. The last time I used Baz's wand was to impale a handsy goat man through the windpipe. (I don't feel weird about that. I feel pretty good about it, honestly.) I just feel weird about the reminder. That was the most useful a wand ever was for me, and it was after I'd lost my magic.

It's weird to have a wand in my hand again, especially my left one. I always felt an imposter with a wand, even when I was the most powerful magician to ever walk the earth. I try not to let the feeling deter me now.

Baz gives me one gentle smile at the sight of me holding his wand and turns to Penelope and Agatha. "I'll lead us in. Remember that we need to stay together and hit the words with our full intent."

"Which words?" Agatha asks.

"The refrain," he says, "it will carry the most weight."

She nods and looks to Penny, who does the same.

"Right," Baz says, bringing his bow up to the ready.

"Is now a good time to admit that I don't know the words?" Shepard asks.

Baz sighs, drops his bow and glares at Shepard. "What."

Shepard shrugs. "It's not that popular in America. When I suggested Christmas carols, I was sort of thinking Jingle Bells or something."

Baz turns to glare at Penelope now, like she's the one to blame for her boyfriend's ignorance.

"Oh, fine," she says. "Shepard, you can pull up the lyrics on your phone and Simon will hold my hand."

We rearrange ourselves, Baz's very unhappy expression following every move. I think he's just pissed he had his big moment interrupted.

"If we're ready _now_ ," he says through clenched teeth, then doesn't wait for anyone to answer. He whips his bow up and draws out the first note. It's round and clear and rings out all around us through the trees.

Even if they don't manage to make the spell work, it's still magickal to watch and listen to Baz play in a setting like this. The only thing that could make it more perfect is a light dusting of snow falling all around him and dotting his blood red wool coat.

He plays a few bars, setting the timing and running through the refrain once before he looks over and nods to cue us in. We all start singing with one voice—even Shepard, whose eyes are glued to his phone.

_The holly and the ivy/ when they are both full grown/ of all the trees that are in the wood/ the holly bears the crown/ O, the rising of the sun/ and the running of the deer/ the playing of the merry organ/ sweet singing in the choir_

We sing through two verses and then…well, then the magic happens.

I've still got my eyes riveted to Baz, playing and singing perfectly note for note. I can feel the energy pouring off him like the waves of heat that used to radiate out from my body before I went off. It's not magic, and it's not fire. It's just Baz. The intensity and the focus and fierceness. Merlin, I'm so in love with him.

I'm gripping his wand tightly in my fist, and clenching Penelope's hand in my other, and even my tail is so tense, it's wound itself around my leg and is squeezing my calf. If I stand here much longer, I think I'm going to cut off my circulation.

I'm a bit distracted when it starts. There's a soft hush of wind through the trees, and I feel it bite into me, the parts of my skin that are exposed. (None of us are wearing gloves or mittens and I'm regretting that right about now. If I'm this cold, then the others are probably worse off. Baz must be miserable, but he doesn't show it.)

The wind continues rustling in the distance, but then the rustling grows louder.

I see Baz's eyes widen, feel Penny's hand give mine a squeeze.

They seem to think something is happening.

I don't see anything. The rustling isn't much to go by, but they could be feeling something in the magickal atmosphere that I don't. Shepard's still got his eyes on his phone, so I can't tell if he's aware of what's happening.

We hit the refrain again: _O, the rising of the sun/ and the running of the deer/ the playing of the merry organ/ sweet singing in the choir_ and I hear a sharp pop. The air sizzles with the smell of burning and there's a deep rumbling underfoot.

I can't tell what's happening, but for a very panicked few seconds, I think we've either managed to tear yet another hole in the magickal atmosphere, or brought the Humdrum back.

Then, _I_ feel it. In Baz's wand, vibrating a bit in my hand, tingling through my fingers. It's not mine, but it's there and I know it's there. I can touch it and it doesn't hurt me. I think it's Baz, though it's been so long, I don't really remember what it felt like. I'm out of practice.

The rumbling builds and then—a handful of deer break through a small stand of trees and stop in front of us, panting.

That wasn't what I was expecting.

"Fuck me," Penny gasps.

Baz lowers his violin now that Penelope's broken the song.

"What was all that?" Shepard asks, looking at the trees surrounding us. "What happened?"

"I think we tapped into the magic," Baz says, sounding awed. "Aleister Crowley."

"Stevie Nicks and Gracie Slick," Penny says. "Morgana the mighty."

She looks down at her hand, with her amethyst resting on her palm, the stone's outline imprinted from where it pressed against her skin as she held it tightly. "I felt it my gem. I felt the magic."

"So did I," Agatha says. "It's weak, but it's there."

"I was so certain it would affect the flora and not the fauna," Baz muses, sounding a bit disappointed. I can't tell if he's disappointed in himself or in the spell.

"Well, look at it this way," Shepard says, "you didn't summon Jesus, but you did summon lunch."

Baz doesn't look like he knows how to respond to that.

"To be fair," Penelope says in her professorial voice, "the deer are mentioned in the refrain and the holly and the ivy are not."

The deer have gotten bored with us and are wandering back into the trees, disappearing from sight after a while. We're all still just standing there, not entirely sure what just happened.

"I could feel the magic," I say into the hush that follows.

Baz's eyes meet mine and there's so much emotion in that look, I feel it knock the breath out of me.

I take the two steps needed to reach him and hold his wand out to him on the palms of my hands. He moves his bow to his violin hand and takes it of me, never breaking my gaze.

"Simon," he says, and nothing else.

What else is there to say?

I nod. "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need you all to know that I've been listening non-stop to the holiday music stream from my local classical radio station and "The Holly and the Ivy" came on just as I was starting to type out the lyrics! I was very impressed with my impeccable sense of timing.
> 
> I also have no idea if the mages would actually all know the lyrics to the song. Maybe the first verse at least?
> 
> [Here's a recording](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YiOrlY6AzcE) of "The Holly and the Ivy" on YouTube by Ars Nova Copenhagen for those who are interested in hearing the song.


	25. Day 25: Parallel Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the day's revelations, Simon lies awake in bed, contemplating possibilities.

**SIMON**

I think I'm still in shock.

It's been hours.

I'm just lying in bed, wide awake, staring at the gargoyles carved into the canopy on Baz's bed.

I don't know how I'm feeling. I don't know if I'm feeling anything at all.

I'd forgotten what it was like, feeling magic like that. I guess it was never really like that. I always had my own magic, so when I felt someone else's, I always focussed on how it compared to mine.

I can still feel it when someone casts on me, but that's more a sense of the power from the magic, rather than the magic itself. Like, I feel the force of it as it washes through me. I feel its effects.

Holding Baz's wand today was different. It was new. I've never felt his magic like that before, just it, all on its own, clear and vibrant and scalding, like it was burning all of my nerve endings, charging them into live wires.

It was incredible and terrifying.

Baz is powerful, but I've never really understood how powerful, because I had so much power flowing through me all the time. He's a force and he's a vampire, which makes him even more powerful.

Baz—my Baz, the man lying next to me with a heartbeat I can't hear—may be the most powerful thing in our world. There's nothing else like him.—No one else. No one who can summon fire and vampire super powers all at once. He's a fucking miracle and he's mine.

It's been such a long time since I felt magic for what it truly is. To have Baz's magic there, in the wand as I held it, to feel his power surging, was a kind of intimacy we haven't had since that night in the woods, when everything went wrong.

I wonder, was that the same spot we were standing in today? There's no way to ever really know, but it doesn't matter. That it was the same wood feels significant, though.

I think about everything that's happened between that last time and today. All the things that have brought us back here.

I think about what it could mean for me. What it could mean for all of us.

A million questions run through my mind.

Am I able to feel all magic now, or just Baz's?

Will it happen all the time, or only under certain conditions?

If we could do it again, would I want to? I think so. I like being with Baz like that.

Am I going to get my magic back? What will it mean if I do? What will it mean if I don't?

Is there any chance that having magickal powers again will feel good and not like I'm back to being a ticking time bomb?

I know Baz and Penny both think that the reason I couldn't control my magic was because of the weird ritual the Mage did to bring the Chosen One. That it wasn't my fault. That trying to force the prophecy lead to fucking up the prophecy, and in turn, fucking up my life.

But I still wonder if I was the one fucking up. Maybe I never would have been a good magician even if my magic had worked the way it was supposed to. I'll never know, unless I get my magic back.

What would it have been like, having regular levels of magic? Could I have learned to control my power properly?

Is there another version of me, out there somewhere, who learned how to cast spells just like his classmates? A version of me who never created a hole so big that it became sentient and tried to end the world?

Is there a version of me who really was the Chosen One? And another one that really was a supervillain?

A me who never figured out how to stop the Humdrum, and sucked all the magic up?

Is there a future where I get my magic back and I'm not terrible at it? Can that future co-exist with this present?

I roll over and look at Baz. I was surprised when he fell asleep almost the moment he got into bed, but he expended a lot of energy today and his body needs to recharge.

I wonder. Is there a world out there where Baz and I didn't end up together? Where we stayed enemies?

I can't even imagine that. Baz and I, never being Baz and I. (I suppose, even when we were enemies, we were still Baz and I, just in a more aggressively antagonistic way.)

I run my fingers through his hair. It's still soft. It still smells like cedar and bergamot.

"What are you doing?" He asks, half asleep but still with a teasing lilt in his voice.

"Shh," I say, "you're supposed to be asleep."

"So are you."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Do you want to talk about it, or do you want to keep tossing and turning and waking me up?"

"Wanker."

"What's on your mind?"

"You know."

He yawns and stretches, scooting his body closer to mine. "May I?" He asks, before wrapping his arms around me. I appreciate that he asks, but I hate that he has to. That I've made him doubt how much I love him.

I nod wordlessly and let him pull me into his chest. I bury my face there.

"Good or bad?" He asks.

"I don't know," I mumble against his pyjama shirt. It's silk, because of course it is. It's also monogrammed.

"Tell me?"

"Just thinking if there's any universe out there where I get things right."

"There isn't," he says and I huff and try to push away, but he brings out the vampire strength and holds me to him. "No, let me finish. There isn't another universe where you get things right, because that's not the way the world works. We don't all get things right all the time. No one ever does. We all mess up pretty spectacularly, Simon."

"Baz, I almost destroyed all of magic."

"We all have our ups and downs. Yours were just a little more extreme than most because of the stakes."

"What do you think would happen if you sang it?"

" _The Holly and the Ivy_?"

"No."

It takes him a moment. "Ah. Well. I don't know."

"Do you ever miss it?"

"Miss what, exactly?"

He's careful. He's afraid I'm going to say "my magic".

"Sharing," I say. "Being that close."

"Sometimes," he answers after a long pause, "I wish we could. But I don't really miss it."

"Like, when?"

He doesn't answer.

"Baz."

"When things gets overwhelming for you. I wish you could just push some of it into me."

"I couldn't do that," I say. "I don't want you to feel any of that."

"Well, I don't want you to feel it," he says. "So, we're even."

"You could say we match," I murmur and I feel a laugh shake itself up his chest.

"You could," he agrees.

"Do you suppose we're still together? In the other universe, I mean."

"I don't think there's any version of me out there that isn't miserable with love for you," he tells me.

"I don't think that sounds very good," I say.

"You know me, Snow. I'd never be happy without some drama in my life, regardless of the universe in question."

"Mm."

"How did you get down this interdimensional train of thought anyway?" He asks.

"Suppose I was just thinking, what happened today could be the start of something big in our lives. A change. Right now, it feels a like I'm standing in the middle of a road with all these different paths to take, only I'm not the one who gets to choose. Even if I could choose, I wouldn't know which way to go."

"None of us do," he says.

"Then, how do you choose?"

"I think you have to take a leap."

I sigh. "Good thing I've got wings, then."

"Good thing I'm indestructible," he says.

I smile against his shirt.

"Do you want me to sing it?" He asks, so quietly.

I hesitate.

"My boyfriend gave me the song book as a Christmas gift."

"Your boyfriend doesn't want you to wear yourself out."

He shifts me off him, sitting up against the headboard, grabbing his wand from the bedside table.

I take a deep breath and scoot over to him, so I'm knelt between his legs. He holds out his hands and I take them in mine, my left hand wrapped around his right and his wand.

"Ready?" He asks, and his voice is barely more than a breath.

I swallow and nod.

I love listening to Baz sing. His voice is deep and rich and runs like velvet over my skin.

Somehow, even singing **_Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star_** , he gives me chills.

He gets through the first line and then he scowls at me and I realise he expects me to join in, so I do.

 ** _How I wonder what you are_** we sing together.

I start to feel it, moving down his fingers, pushing out into his wand, sizzling and searing as it goes. He has so much fire in him. I want it to burn me up.

Nothing happens, but the fact that the magic is there for him to draw on at all is enough.

We're halfway through **_Like a diamond_** when I pitch myself forward and claim his mouth with mine, because I just can't stop myself. We're still clinging to each other by our hands, never letting go, but I don't feel the magic anymore. Except that I do, because it's still inside of him and part of him and maybe he can't give it to me the way I used to give him mine, but he can still share it with me, like this.

The other stuff doesn't matter, alternate realities, and possible futures, and what ifs. Nothing matters outside of this, these secrets shared in the darkness.

Every path leads to Baz.


	26. Day 26: Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agatha gets introspective about how she's spending her break.

**AGATHA**

I didn't sign up for this. (As if that's ever mattered.)

I just wanted to spend the Christmas break with my friends. I wanted to watch movies and eat bikkies and just _relax_.

Instead, I came to Hampshire with the four most exhausting individuals alive. It's not that I didn't know better. I did know better. You don't go anywhere near Penelope Bunce if you're interested in relaxation.

I still don't know how it happened. I knew what they were going to be doing here. I knew it wasn't meant to be a holiday. No one goes to a dead spot for a good time. And I knew who was going to be here.

The house is a nightmare all on its own, and we're rather isolated out here. There really is no reason to presume an axe murderer isn't going to wander up at any moment and start hacking away. An axe murderer would probably fit in pretty well with this lot.

So please, someone, tell me how I wound up here.

One minute Penelope was telling me about her secret project from the Coven and the next, I was volunteering to come along. I'd almost think Penelope had put some kind of a charm over me, because she's so determined to be my new BFF, but I can't even blame her. She was just as shocked as I was when I asked if I could come. She even tried to talk me out of it, and accused me of pranking her.

The weirdest part of it all is that I've actually been sort of enjoying myself? I never liked being in on the dreadful duo's missions (probably because half the time, I _was_ the mission) and I'm useless with a mystery. I'm no magickal scholar, either. I don't think I have anything to contribute to the discussion, and I don't really find hypothesizing about the transmutation of magic and facts and figures about atmospheric levels interesting. At all.

I think the problem is that I actually like these people. I know some of that is shared history, the life and death situations that we've gotten into and out of with each other. But more than that, I think it's just that they're _good_ people. Not good like, morally. But good like, they try. They're actually trying to make a difference. Unironically. Just because.

I've spent time with people who claim they're trying to make a difference, and nearly wound up getting ground into magickal vampire paste as a result. They're not here doing this for the glory or the money (there isn't any). They're doing it because they want to.

I've never been that kind of person, but maybe a part of me thinks I should be? Why else would I be putting myself through all of this during my Christmas break? I should be at home, sipping mulled wine and doing mani-pedis with Minty. Instead, I'm here, listening to Penelope give her dad a full report on our unsanctioned magickal experiment. And I'm invested in the outcome.

When I drove Penny and Shepard around the countryside, I found myself getting excited at every new spot we tested, feeling a surge of disappointment when there was no observable change, and a rush of elation when we'd get a positive reading.

I care.

It's a horrible feeling, honestly, being this emotionally invested in anything. But here we are.

I care.

I've been thinking a lot about my conversation with Shepard. About becoming a magickal veterinarian. I've done some reading; magickal veterinary medicine is a highly specialised field, but it exists. There are people out there in the world who do it. Who would let me apprentice with them.

I could make a difference. Not just in the animal world, but in the magickal world, too.

I could make a difference using magic. My magic, as lacklustre as it is. I don't need super power or super intelligence or super strength. I just need my degree and my magic.

This really hasn't been such a miserable break after all.


	27. Day 27: Snowstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the snow finally starts, it doesn't show signs of stopping. Have you brought any corn for popping?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this has nothing to do with corn, don't worry. But it does involve a certain dragon whose blood smells like popcorn XD

**BAZ**

It started snowing yesterday afternoon, almost immediately after our impromptu musical performance in the woods. We stayed out a bit longer than we likely should have, because it was beautiful and none of us really knew what to do with ourselves.

It must have been snowing all night.

As I look out the window now, nearly everything I see is white.

"Fuck," I swear under my breath. What a time for a freak snowstorm.

"What's wrong?" Simon asks through a yawn. He's still in bed, sprawled on his stomach with his wings splayed out around him. The only thing he has on are his pants, and they're riding low because of the tail.

"I think we're snowed in," I tell him.

"Snowed in?" He squawks. "What? No."

"How are you not freezing your lovely arse off, my dear Snow?"

He chuckles. "Come back to bed and find out."

I roll my eyes. "Simon, the next time you attempt to seduce me, at least bother to raise your head."

He doesn't quite lift it, just turns it to the side so that he can smile at me from over his shoulder and under his wing. His hair is a matted mass of fuzzy curls and they're so long, they're hanging over his eyes. He blows on them, to try to move them out of the way of what is surely a seductive leer of knee-weakening calibre, but they flop back over his eyes as soon as he goes back to smiling.

"Charming, truly."

He laughs and drops his head. "Why so grumpy? Isn't this supposed to be a romantic getaway in the country?"

"No," I say flatly.

He laughs again. "Baaaz," he groans. "Stop pouting and come back to bed. No, wait. Keep pouting. I like it."

"I didn't hunt last night," I admit with a grimace. I didn't really feel right leaving Snow alone or bringing him outside with me. Especially not after our earlier encounter with the deer.

Simon raises his head this time. "Why didn't you hunt?"

I sigh. "You must know why."

"Aren't you thirsty?"

"Hence why I am out of bed and checking the weather," I gesture to the window.

"You…don't have to go out."

How did I know this was coming?

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

"Simon—"

"Baz."

He's sitting up now, facing me in his rumpled, freckled, flushed glory. It's unfair. He knows he's playing dirty, all warm and lush and practically naked in my bed.

"Simon, no. I've said no. I wish you'd listen to me."

"I am listening," he says. "I'm just trying to understand."

"You don't have to understand."

"I want to. I want to know what's going on with you. You get all hard when we talk about it. You pull back. I don't like it. Isn't this something we need to talk about?"

"It's never going to happen. What's there to talk about?"

"I think I'd just like to know why you don't want me."

"No, this isn't about you. You don't get to make it about you."

He sits up on his knees and scoots over to the end of the bed, which is just pouring salt into the wound. (That's an unfortunate metaphor for a moment like this.)

"Then talk to me about you."

"If I drink your blood, I don't get to come back from that."

"Back from what?"

"I've never tasted human blood before."

He blinks. Maybe he truly doesn't get it.

"That's not a line that I ever wanted to cross. It was…taboo."

"Because you thought that it would make you a murderer."

"That was part of it."

"Tell me the other part."

I sigh and walk over to the couch. I really do want to climb back into bed with him, but I don't trust myself to resist temptation and that's all he is. If we're going to have a real conversation about this, then I need to keep a clear head and I'm already compromised by my thirst and the smell of a delicious, buttery human begging to be bitten.

"The other part is a bit more complicated."

"We have time, don't we?"

"They killed my mother, Snow. They attacked defenseless children inside a nursery. There were babies there. My mother is the only reason no one else was hurt that day."

"That doesn't have to be you, Baz." He scoots closer and I do my best not to watch the way every muscle shifts under his skin. "It isn't you. This isn't something you chose. And you're so strong. You're not going to lose yourself to it. You've been in control since you were five, and you never had anyone to help you. You survived all these years on your own. At some point you have to stop hating yourself and accept that you're more than the circumstances that made you this way. You're so much better than that. Letting yourself have something you want isn't going to turn you into a monster. It can't change who you are. And you're the best man I've ever known. I mean, you weren't so great when we were in school, but—" he laughs and ducks his head. "I love the man you've grown into. The one you finally let me see. I just wish you could love him, too."

"You must really be desperate to have me bite you," I say, because he's being unbearably soft and my gums are aching.

He growls and throws a pillow at me. "You're such a brat!"

I snatch the pillow out of the air with ease and use it to hide behind. "Thank you," I say, and I try to put every drop of sincerity I have in me behind the words. "I…I'll continue to think about it. And we can talk about it again, as long as you promise not to bring it up when I'm mad with thirst and you're laid out like a Christmas ham."

"I've not put on that much weight," he shoots back. I laugh.

"But not here, Simon," I say, and I move the pillow so he can see my face when I say it. "Not here. There are memories I have of this place that I'd rather not muddle up with…you."

His brow furrows, but then he smiles again, and it's so brilliant. "I can fly you out. Or I can fly something in."

I throw the pillow back at him. "You're not delivering food to my bedroom window."

"Why not? I've gotten you animals to drink before."

"Please! Not in this house."

"What is it about the house?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But—"

"I told you. Bad memories. Don't make me dredge them up."

"You need to deal with those memories if you ever want to move past them."

"Is that something you learned in therapy?"

I'm not a brat. I'm a bastard.

"Yeah," he answers nastily. "It's actually the reason I quit. Because I was scared. Because it was fucking painful and I didn't know how to cope."

He stands up and crosses the room, pulling clothes out of drawers and then pulling them on. "I'll fly you out," he says. "And then when you're in a better mood, we're going to talk about this. And you're going to remind me why you still think therapy is okay for me and not for you."

"You lied to me, you know," I say. "From the very beginning of our relationship."

He crosses his arms and cocks his head. His arms look glorious like this, and I think he knows and isn't afraid to use it to his advantage. "Oh, did I?"

"You told me you were a terrible boyfriend."

He raises his head and drops his arms. "Oh."

I stand, too, and walk over to him. He watches me, I think more curious than wary. I lower my lips to his temple and let them linger there, on the pulse. "I love the man you've grown into, too."


	28. Day 28: Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard convinces the gang to have a Christmas Eve-eve party, complete with a highly competitive game of charades.

**SHEPARD**

We're playing charades.

Penelope was not happy to see how much snowfall we got overnight. She was planning on another country lane excursion to take atmospheric readings, but it's not safe on the roads and no one's willing to dig out the drive from the garage.

Which left us with a lot of free time to fill indoors.

"Snow day!" I'd suggested.

Penelope wasn't happy with that suggestion, either.

"Aw, come on, Pen. It's Christmas Eve-eve. It's practically a holiday all its own."

"That's not a thing," she said.

I pushed bravely on. "We can eat biscuits and cheese toasties and listen to music and play games! We haven't done anything festive since arts and crafts." I smile. "Didn't you have fun with the arts and crafts?"

"We just baked and decorated a whole batch of gingerbread and yesterday we cast an actual Christmas carol. How are those things not festive?"

"Okay, both good points. But now we're having a white Christmas."

"I miss San Diego," I heard Agatha moan from the window seat at the big stained glass window that looks out to the front yard. "And Lucy hates the snow. Don't you?"

"Oh, for the last time, we did not abandon her to freeze to death in the snow," Penelope practically shouted. "She jumped out of the car on her own and ran away. We were trying to stop the Mage from murdering Simon."

Agatha didn't respond.

Before things got any more awkward, I put my plan into motion.

"Why don't I make some tea?" I said.

Just like clockwork, Penelope and Agatha both jumped in to stop me from committing some kind of crime against humanity.

I had to think of fun activities to entertain a very tough crowd. Simon's easy to please, but I knew Baz would be in the same reluctant camp as Penelope and Agatha.

What kind of games do you play with magickal friends who don't have magic? Twister? Not with the wings and tail. Cards? Baz and Penny would cheat. Or accuse everyone else of cheating if they didn't win. Murder in the dark? With these people, in this house, I knew it would turn literal fast, and also it was like ten in the morning. Hide and seek? Simon and I would hide and everyone else would ditch. Snowball fight? World War III.

"Charades!" I called out, the moment inspiration struck.

I heard Penelope scoff from the direction of the kitchen.

"No one wants to play charades!" She called back.

"Have you asked everyone?"

"Did someone say charades?" Simon's voice carried down the stairs as he and Baz reemerged from Baz's bedroom. The two of them went out earlier for some _al fresco_ dining and then they disappeared for a while.

No one asked for further information.

"Guys!" I said, as soon as they came into view. "We're having a holiday party!"

"Is it a holiday?" Baz raised an eyebrow.

"Christmas Eve-eve," Penelope said, "according to Shepard."

"Where's all the holiday spirit?" I asked. "It's a white Christmas!"

"Yes, well, I have Snow all year long," Baz said. He was trying to play it cool, but Simon blushed and smiled.

Penelope made choking noises.

"Oi," Simon nudged her. "We're not that bad."

"You have been lately," she said.

Simon ducked his head. "Yeah, we have."

"Charades!" I said again.

"I'm in!" Simon agreed eagerly. "I've always wanted to play charades at a Christmas party."

"I don't know whether to feel depressed because of your deprived childhood, or because you consider charades a life goal," Baz said.

He still agreed to play, though, using Simon as an excuse.

It was a flimsy excuse.

Baz and Penelope are the most fiercely competitive people I've ever met.

They've nearly come to blows multiple times. And they were on the same team.

The rest of us had to intervene and split them up. Now Baz and Simon are on a team and it's just as bad, but way more entertaining.

Simon's been trying to act out his prompt for the last five minutes. They're way over time, but I think we're all just enjoying watching the train wreck too much to stop them.

Simon started off the round by pointing to himself.

"You," Baz said. "Me, mine, chest, sternum, heart, lungs, vascular system, jumper, pectorals."

Simon stopped and gave Baz a _look_.

"What?"

Simon pointed to himself again.

"You? Man? Human? Mage? Dragon?"

Simon sighed. Then he pointed to the window.

"Window?" Baz asked. "Stained glass? Garden?"

Simon growled and dragged a hand over his face. He took a breath and shook his hands out in front of him to clear the air. Then he folded them like he was praying. He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

"Praying?" Baz guessed.

Maybe he wasn't that thick after all.

Simon perked up and gestured for Baz to go on.

"Praying? Begging? Supplicating?"

Simon growled again. Then he lifted one arm over his head and drew a circle in the air with his finger.

"What the fuck are you doing, Snow?"

Simon's face lit up and he pointed at Baz, then pointed at himself, then waved his hand like he was trying to get more out of Baz.

"What did I say?" Baz asked. "'What are you doing'?"

Simon shook his head. I could tell he was trying really hard not to launch himself across the room.

Instead, he folded his legs, sat down on the floor, then laid all the way down, stretching his arms and legs out.

"Are you a corpse? Is this meant to be some kind of vampire joke? Is that why you were praying?"

Simon started waving his arms and legs around on the floor, pushing them back and forth. It was a little hard for him, since his wings were in the way, but he managed.

"Clearly, you're some kind of offensive insect in the last throes of its life."

Simon jumped to his feet. "Snow angel!" He shouted. "Snow!" He pointed to himself and the window again. "An-gel!" He mimed tracing a halo over his head and flapped his arms and wings. "Snow angel, Baz! Not a fucking vascular system."

"Well, it was two words," Baz defended himself.

Simon just groaned, more defeated.

"You looked more like a snow devil," Baz said, and I could tell he was trying to flirt, but it definitely backfired.

"Hey, I'm still cross with you over that," Simon said.

"Wait. What?" Baz asked.

"You got me locked outside the castle in sixth year and I spent all night getting pelted with chestnuts by snow devils and then I nearly froze _my_ chestnuts."

"Oh," Baz said. "I…didn't know they'd attacked you."

Simon just continued to glare at him as he sat back down. "Vascular system," he muttered under his breath.

Our team wins in a landslide. (Which is one of our words. Penelope acts it out. She does a mean Stevie Nicks.)


	29. Day 29: Secret Santa/Gift giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, friends, at the penultimate day of the Countdown. I am shocked and amazed I have survived, though admittedly, I have let many other things fall to the wayside in order to get something up every day. It's fine.
> 
> If you've made it this far, thank you so much for your support of this long, weird, and wild story. I had no idea what it would be like to actually write a fic with a different prompt for every chapter, but I feel proud of what I've done. I don't know what it will be like to sit down and read this like a normal fic, which I will do at some point, but I've had a lot of fun with the process and I think I got some great lines and emotions packed in along the way.
> 
> Technically, this is the last chapter for this fic, but I'm doing a lovely and very soft/self-indulgent art piece tomorrow that I will share here, as well as on tumblr. So please do check it out. ;^) Happy reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel obligated to add a disclaimer that I was pretty much in tears the entire time I wrote this. I swear to Stevie it's all happy, but it definitely made me cry. So, just be advised.

**SIMON**

It's Christmas Eve.

Which also means it's Baz's and my anniversary.

Which is weird.

I mean, it's good. But it's also weird. Because it isn't just our anniversary. It's the day before everything went wrong.

This time of year, it's impossible to breathe without the constant reminder of Christmas. Christmas. The day I made the biggest dead spot in the entire magickal world. The day I gave myself these wings and tail that I can't seem to give up. The day I fled from this house in a panic, thinking Baz blamed me (because he had every right to). The day I found out I was the biggest threat to the World of Mages, that I had created the Insidious Humdrum, and that I had been the one sucking up the magic all along. The day I went to the White Chapel to give myself up. The day I lost Ebb. The day I killed the Mage—my father. The day I looked into the eyes of my eleven-year-old self and gave up everything that I thought had ever made me worth something.

The day Baz held me in his arms and let me cry and called me love for the first time.

Christmas is a hard time of year for a lot of people. It's a hard time of year for me. But I'm lucky, because I haven't had to face it alone since I was that frightened eleven-year-old kid.

And maybe I did have to give up my magic, but what I got in return is worth more.

I got a future. And yeah, it's different than I thought it was going to be, and it's taken me a long time to be able to appreciate the reality of it. But it's mine and I get to make it what I want.

I never really had that before. The power to make my own choices, to control my own life. To live it for me, how I want to live it. To share it only with the people that I care about—the people who care about me.

I've been doing my best not to put any pressure on myself to figure things out.

I've been sort of trying not to figure things out. To allow myself to exist without a plan. To feel my way along.

It's hard and I make mistakes and I have bad days. But so does everybody. It doesn't make me a fuck up. It just makes me human. Normal. Well, normal. I don't have to be special. I don't have to be extraordinary. I can just be Simon Snow. And that's okay. Because it's up to me to decide who that is.

And most of the time, I kind of like him.

He's done pretty well, so far. (Going back to therapy and learning how to ask for help were both important steps to getting there.)

Being vulnerable is the scariest feeling in the entire world. I've not really had a lot of people I could trust in my life. Some of them I lost along the way, and some of them proved themselves untrustworthy. But the people I have around me now have walked through fire with me, and I know they'll keep doing it.

I know they'll continue to be there for me, every time I need them.

I know Baz will be here today, and tomorrow, and next year, and the year after that.

Because it isn't just my future now, it's _our_ future.

We're going to figure things out along the way together, because that's what we chose. That's what we give each other, every day and every year.

It's the best gift.

More than either one of us has ever had or hoped for.

Which is why I get a bit of a sinking feeling when Baz hands me a box with a bow on.

"I thought we were only doing Christmas," I tell him. "I only got you things for Christmas."

He smiles and touches a finger to my cheek. The expression on his face is the softest I've ever seen it. "Simon, I think your gift counts for just about every gift giving occasion there is, and then some."

"It was just a few books and a piece of paper that says there's a ball of gas out there somewhere with your name on it. Well, not on it, but—"

He presses a kiss to that mole on my neck. The one he likes the best. (It's a close thing with the big one on my cheek.) "Go on, then," he whispers.

I sigh. I'd rather we just forget about the present and finish what he started with that kiss.

We're all alone, in bed. There's a fire burning brightly in the fireplace and a winter wonderland outside. The mood is perfect. Except for the box.

It's flat and rectangular, black velvet with a red satin bow. If I didn't know how he felt about the only one I've ever worn, I'd almost think Baz had bought me a necklace, because that's exactly the kind of box it is.

"This isn't going to be something fancy or expensive, is it?"

It doesn't feel like there's anything inside the box. It doesn't weigh anything, and it doesn't rattle when I shake it. I don't hear anything.

"Don't shake it," he grabs my hands. "Just open it!"

"Baz, I'm nervous!" I admit.

"You haven't anything to be nervous about."

"But—"

"It's something you've been asking for."

"It is?"

Definitely not jewellery then.

I can't think of anything I've asked for. Well, nothing except for Baz to bite me. And he can't have put that into a box. Besides, we just talked about it yesterday. And we're going to talk about it again, and that makes me a bit happy, because I want to be with Baz like that, and I think he wants to be like that with me. He's just scared, and that's okay. We'll be vulnerable together.

"Simon," he sighs. "If you don't open it, I will."

"I just—give me a minute, yeah?"

"I'll have you know that you're absolutely impossible to shop for because I know you won't accept anything."

"I just don't want you spending a lot of money on me."

"I didn't spend any money," he says. "Yet."

"What?"

"What's inside that box did not cost me anything more than my pride."

"Baz—"

"Crowley, Simon, just open the box!"

I do.

There's…a small piece of paper inside. A card. A business card. There's a name on it that I recognise, and a Chicago phone number.

"Why are you giving me my therapist's business card?" I ask.

"You mean my therapist," he says.

That's when the pieces click together.

I have been asking Baz to go to therapy, almost as long as I've been back myself. (So has Penny. So have his parents.)

"Baz," I gasp. "Really?"

"I figured this was the only way I could give you something that you wouldn't try to refuse."

"Am I really that bad?"

"No. You're good about letting me do little things for you. It's just the big ones that I know are hard."

"I don't know," I say. "I feel like this is a pretty big thing."

"You're not going to fuss, are you?"

"No, I love it, Baz, truly. It's perfect. Thank you for this."

He gives me a wry smile. "It's probably I who should be thanking you."

I roll my eyes, faking annoyance. "It's just like you, really," I say, "to give me a gift that's actually more for you."

"That reminds me, I also have some gold cuff links with my initials that I thought you'd like."

I laugh. "See, I'm not even sure you're joking."

He laughs, too, and deposits another kiss on my neck, this time to the other mole there. Then the first mole again. I feel him trail the tip of his nose (the bent tip) along my skin, drawing a line between them, connecting my dots.

"I'm really proud of you," I tell him. It's easier to do while he's not looking at me, because I don't want him to feel embarrassed. My voice is still barely more than a whisper into the quiet stillness of the morning.

"You may want to reserve that pride until I've actually had my first session," he says.

I pull away from him, and bring my hands to each side of his face, to make sure he's looking at me. "No," I say. "I'm not going to let you talk yourself down. Baz, this is a big step and I'm proud of you and I'm grateful that you care enough about me to do this for us. And I hope that eventually, you won't just be doing it for me or for us, but for yourself, too. Because you deserve to ask for help and to get it."

He lets out a shallow, shaky breath. I can tell he's trying not to cry.

I don't want him to cry. I want this to be happy and even if they're happy tears, I don't want them muddying up my morning.

"I love you," I tell him. "And I'm going to keep loving you."

I kiss him, but then I think better of it.

"Crowley, why are you pulling away?" He pouts.

I smile. "I was just thinking. Since she's your therapist now, too, maybe we should call her. Talk to her. About how I can feel magic now."

"It's Christmas Eve," he says. "And it'll be the middle of the night in Chicago."

"Oh," I say. "Right. Well, when we get back to London, then, yeah?"

"Yeah."

I move in again, but then he's the one who pulls back this time.

"Hold on," he says with a laugh.

"What?" I whine, puckering up towards him and trying to get to his mouth.

He holds me at bay. "Happy anniversary."

I stop. "Oh." I smile and feel my whole face get hot. "Happy anniversary, Baz."

He grins at me. "Go on, then," he says, putting my hands on his shoulders and closing his eyes. "Carry on, Simon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My happy ending is always sending the boys to therapy. XD


	30. Day 30: Any Way the Wind Blows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some husbands!

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Simon Snow art blog on tumblr [@palimpsessed](https://palimpsessed.tumblr.com). Come say hi to me!


End file.
